A Year On An Airplane
by Roxanne J
Summary: Elizabeth loved Will. Will loved Elizabeth. Should have been simple, right? Then why did she refuse him, and why did he let her go? What happens when they’re stuck on an airplane together, after years apart? A touch of destiny. Modern Willabeth
1. Sending Postcards

**Setting:** Modern Willabeth. On an airplane.

**Author's Note: **Reviews are loved.

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_A Year On An Airplane  
Chapter 1: Sending Postcards... _

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"Would you mind terribly if we switched? I can do without the window seat."

The softest, deepest voice. Thick British accent. Elizabeth took a moment to finish the last few sentences of her chapter before looking up from the pages of _Pride and Prejudice_. She thought fleetingly that the voice sounded familiar, although with the noise of the other passengers on the plane she couldn't be sure.

When at last she glanced at the man who had spoken, fully intent on telling him he could bloody well find someone else to cheat out of their aisle seat, she paused. He was familiar, indeed; tall, a well-cut blazer over the same worn out Oxford t-shirt she'd seen hundreds of times, a battered leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder, also recognizable, and she'd know his dark, wavy curls anywhere.

"Will Turner!"

He had been rummaging for something in the bottom of his bag, but the moment she spoke his head snapped up and he turned curious eyes on her. Then he smiled. The same warm smile she hadn't seen in three years, the same smile she missed at night when her fiancé left her alone in the sprawling L.A. apartment, the smile that was burned into her memory along with the day she'd left him in New York, with a half-arse explanation and a promise that it wasn't because of him their relationship was over. Only then there had been a sadness behind the smile, but he'd still wished her luck and urged her to call if she needed him.

She hadn't called. She'd kept his cell number, a talisman against anything that could possibly go wrong, reassuring to know he'd be there if things didn't turn out as well as she'd planned. She hadn't realized until this moment how stupid she'd been to think she could have still reached him; his number had probably changed ages ago.

"Still looking for your Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth?"

His eyes were bright, teasing. He'd always tormented her about the dog-eared copy of _Pride and Prejudice_, and she remembered him laughing without fail every time she tried to compare him to Mr. Darcy. But…didn't he know? God, she didn't want to bring it up. Hadn't she hurt him enough already?

But clearly he didn't know, or it had slipped his mind, because he shot her a wink and went back to rifling through his bag. She heard the distinct sound of a pill bottle rattling, and Will, looking triumphant, drew it out from his bag along with a bottle of water. She watched him, trying to seem as if she wasn't watching at all, but he immediately caught her eye and quirked an expectant eyebrow. Ah, yes…he'd asked her to take the window seat.

She didn't mind moving for him, she'd still do anything for him, and as he swallowed a little white pill and a gulp of water she gathered up her carry-on bag and her purse and slid over into the next seat. Her left hand was resting on the back of the seat in front, bracing herself as she leaned down to slide her bags under her seat, and Will dropped to sit beside her as she straightened up again. She saw his gaze flicker to the diamond ring around her finger.

His eyes went dark, just for an instant, and his easy grin faded a bit.

"Congratulations," he offered after another short moment, and his voice was still light and comfortable. Perhaps she'd only imagined the shadow that had passed across his features. "Read it in Time magazine."

"Thank you," she returned, and although she tried to keep her voice steady and strong, the words came out with a soft waver and she turned her attention to the window and the tarmac below rather than looking at him. She felt sick with both guilt and regret, as she did every time she allowed her thoughts to wander to him. She hadn't really given him a chance. She hadn't been fair to him. Yet now…now he was behaving as if none of it had ever happened. Perhaps he'd forgiven her?

Well, at least someone had. She certainly hadn't been able to forgive herself.

She forced a smile and turned back to him as quickly as she could manage it, not wanting to raise suspicion about her happiness in the situation. It was really a wasted effort, she knew; she could appear as unhappy as she liked and still be clear of questioning, because Will had far too much tact to be intrusive.

"Richard what's-his-face…. Lacey, isn't it? That self-made millionaire's son. The one with the book?"

"Richard Lacey, yes," she confirmed, a bit puzzled at Will's good-natured indifference. If it had been her hearing of his engagement, if he'd done to her what she'd done to him, she knew she couldn't have had so much self control.

"Thought so," he returned with a shrug, and twisted the cap from the pill bottle again. She watched with narrowed eyes for a moment, wondering what the hell he was doing, and when his fingers plunged into the bottle for another of the little chalky white pills she promptly snatched the whole bottle away before he could get at a second one. Her fingers brushed his, just for a second; his hands were cold and damp with sweat.

"For God's sake, Will, stop!" she admonished in a low whisper. Concern and worry, emotions she hadn't spared on anyone in quite a while, promptly tied her stomach in knots. Was it her fault? Had news of her engagement driven him to it? "What are these?"

Not giving him time to answer, she dropped her eyes to the label and scanned it quickly. Prescription motion sickness pills, with the label suggesting one every four hours. She felt the color rising in her cheeks, and couldn't quite manage to wrench her eyes back up to meet his.

She remembered now, and felt ridiculous to have flattered herself with thinking the pills were because of her. He didn't fly very well, he never had, and he'd swallow pills worse than any junkie when he was confined to an airplane. He didn't like the window seat, either. She'd forgotten small details like those, it had been so long since she'd last spoken to him.

"May I have them back now, Mother?" he inquired almost innocently, although she caught the mocking laughter behind his tone. "With any luck--"

"--you'll be out before takeoff," she finished for him, having heard the phrase so many times over the course of their relationship that now she couldn't understand how she'd ever forgotten it. She dragged her eyes up to meet his at last. "And no, you may _not _have them back. I'm not carrying you off of another airplane, William Turner."

She hardly knew what she was doing, or when or how it had happened. It felt the same. It felt exactly the same to be in his company now as it had all those months ago. She didn't have to think before she spoke, or worry about offending him, or keep her tone measured. They had been lovers, true enough, but before that they had been friends. And during their relationship he had been her very best friend.

He had caught her off guard. Appeared out of nowhere and interrupted what was supposed to be a routine and boring international flight. She didn't think she minded so much that she was trapped at the window.

So many things were coming back to her now, memories she'd pushed away, that everything was beginning to run together. The one that stuck out the most, however, was the one she'd just used to bait Will. She could recall three sleeping pills chased with a glass of red wine, the flight leaving early and arriving far ahead of schedule, the nice Australian man who had offered to bring their carry-on bags, and Will barely-conscious with one arm draped heavily around her shoulders as she coaxed him into walking.

She couldn't help it; she laughed aloud at the memory, laughed outright at Will, and didn't have the slightest fear of an explosion of temper. She could never laugh at Richard. She could never be easy with him like she'd been with Will. Immediately, she felt guilty for comparing the two; Richard was a wonderful man, and their marriage would be perfect. Her father approved, Richard's family approved, New York and European society approved….

"Oh, come off it," Will promptly shot back, although he was chuckling as well, a deep reassuring sound that immediately pulled her back to the present moment. "I only leaned on your arm a bit."

He shot her a conspiratorial wink and made a grab for the bottle, but she plunged the pills into her bag almost without thinking. Another sharp stab of guilt twisted her stomach, and this time it had nothing to do with her fiancé. What had she done? What had she been thinking then? Will was absolutely…. No way out now; she had a ring on her finger. She had been so sure of herself. And there had been reasons, so many important reasons. Important three years ago, perhaps. Still important?

It wasn't fair. Will couldn't just show up out of nowhere and turn her confidence into doubt.

She loved Richard. She would never have accepted his proposal if she didn't love him.

Repeating those two declarations over and over again in the back of her mind, she turned her attention back to Will. He had his bag pulled into his lap, tucking plane tickets and claim tickets and receipts into a black leather-bound planner. He seemed a bit uncomfortable now, slightly nervous.

She checked her watch and held her tongue; five minutes until their scheduled takeoff, she was fairly certain he couldn't feel the effects of his pills, and she'd kept a second one from him. With good reason, too; he'd be fine with the recommended dose, if he kept himself calm and distracted.

Three years ago she would have offered some kind of subtle comfort, taken his hand or drew him into a whispered conversation to hold his attention. She couldn't now. It wouldn't do any good to lead him on that way, and truly, she'd hurt him enough. Although she suspected that it would be herself she was leading on, and not him. He seemed to have accepted their circumstances quite well.

She tried for a moment to read again, since Will had fallen silent and didn't seem to have the slightest inclination to talk, but once she'd read the same passage six times without understanding she gave up. She watched him, instead. He wouldn't mind, she knew; if it was something he wanted to keep private, he would never bring it out in plain view with her sitting so close.

She even went so far as to lean against the armrest and crane her neck to get a better look. He shot her a little grin, good-natured and genuine, then continued to organize his planner.

First she saw a plane ticket; he had a connection to catch once their flight from Seattle/Tacoma International landed in Washington D.C. A connection to Heathrow in London; she had an identical ticket in her purse. Then she caught sight of a stack of receipts; Starbucks, Borders, innumerable others, all credit card charges. Then three identical claims receipts, as if he were shipping things internationally. Those were familiar as well; she had just sent a number of things from their apartment over to London, although Richard had likely picked everything up by now. That was the entire point of her going, to get everything straightened out in their new flat and take her place in London; Richard had been there for three weeks already, finalizing agreements and leaving her behind to wrap things up in L.A.

It didn't bother her, really. It wasn't the first time he'd traveled without her, and it likely wouldn't be the last. It didn't make any difference that she'd only heard from him twice since then.

"Were you living in Seattle?" she asked after a moment, breaking the surprisingly comfortable silence that had fallen between them. Judging from the receipts and plane tickets, she guessed that he was moving to London as well. She wondered fleetingly if it would make things complicated and uncomfortable, but almost immediately pushed the consideration away.

It still felt strange to be in his company again, closer than they'd been since that day three years ago in his New York apartment, but he wasn't awkward or cold toward her and in turn it put her at ease. But she'd always felt that way around him.

"For the past couple of years, yeah," he confirmed. "I've had a job offer in London, now." He'd answered willingly enough, so perhaps he wasn't so distracted by the plane's looming takeoff that he didn't want to hold a conversation.

She couldn't bring herself to ask what had made him relocate to the other side of the country, afraid his reason would be because of the things she'd said and how terribly she'd behaved toward him. Nor could she find the nerve to ask if he loved someone, or was engaged. She settled instead for a not-so-subtle inquiry, hoping he'd appease her curiosity without being prompted.

"Will you miss it?"

She expected him to launch into an explanation of his perfect girlfriend who would be waiting for him to visit, or perhaps who was waiting for him already in London, or to blame her for driving him across the country. She wasn't prepared for his reply at all.

"I'll miss the ferry boats."

She thought for a fleeting moment that he was joking. She had been too forward and he didn't want to discuss his personal life. But his words had been entirely sincere, and his eyes were serious although bright with his smile, and she'd known him too well and too long to be deceived. He was telling the truth, and she was damned if she could figure him out.

"I have a thing for ferry boats," he offered by way of explanation, and she realized a moment too late that he'd caught her puzzled expression. His ever-present smile had turned into more of a smirk, and now she knew for certain that she'd been played. Although what he was playing at, she couldn't work out. Ferry boat had to be code for something else.

"What about you?" he prompted, and slid down a bit deeper in his seat with a barely-stifled yawn. "Are you living in Seattle as well?"

"Los Angeles," she replied carefully, not wanting to bring up Richard and their impending marriage. As for why she didn't want it mentioned…well, she couldn't work that bit out. "I'm off to London now, too. I only came up to Seattle to say goodbye to a few close friends."

One close friend; Anamaria. And that was only to leave her Dalmatian puppy in safe hands; Richard refused to have animals in the new flat, and he'd certainly never been fond of Domino. It was all a bit unfair, really. And Will loved dogs, although she wasn't sure what that had to do with anything.

It was her turn for a question now, but he didn't seem to be expecting anything more from her. His eyes were closed, and he was leaning back quite comfortably in his seat. She decided to give it a shot anyway, although she had to grope for something that wasn't too demanding and personal, despite wanting to know everything that had happened since last she saw him.

"You're still working in advertising?" she asked at last, latching on to the small detail he'd given her before, of a new job in London.

"Mmm-hmm."

His reply was barely above a whisper, and his breathing had evened out a bit.

"Will?"

No answer at all this time. She'd lost him, and was more than a little disappointed over it. She shouldn't feel disappointed.

Stubbornly, she wrenched her eyes away from him and looked to her watch instead. Six o'clock, far too early to be dressed and on an airplane, and the flight was late, as usual. They were supposed to be in the air now.

She tried her book again, but still couldn't concentrate, although now it wasn't Will drawing her attention. This time it was a tiny, nagging worry in the back of her mind. She had a forty-five minute layover in Washington before her London flight. She couldn't miss it. But if they didn't get in the air soon….

The minutes stretched into a quarter-hour, then a half-hour, then they'd been sitting on the tarmac for exactly forty-five minutes and people were complaining and harassing the stewardesses. She didn't bother catching the reason for the delay; it didn't matter. She was far too occupied holding out hope that the engines would suddenly roar into life. There was always the chance that her London flight was delayed as well, and if they got moving in the next few moments she could still make it….

Then it had been a solid hour and she resigned herself to the unpleasant call she'd have to make, telling Richard she'd missed her connection. No use worrying over it anymore; she was too late to will the plane into moving.

It became a bit easier to relax after that, and she was finally able to focus on her book. She reached the end and started back at the beginning, keeping a steady pace until at last the captain came over the speakers in a garbled mumble and the seatbelt sign flicked on. She glanced at her watch again; a two hour delay, almost exactly.

Will was still unconscious beside her, looking as if he'd never move again, but she'd been on enough flights with him to know not to be alarmed. She was tempted to have a nap as well, once they were off the ground.

She could hear the engines now, and the plane jolted a tiny bit. Without thinking, drawing up a long-dead habit, she leaned across Will and fastened his seatbelt. She paused when her wrist pressed against his chest, and it was then that she realized what she had been doing, after she'd felt the rock-hard abs beneath his worn Oxford shirt.

It felt wrong, and it hurt, and she swallowed hard to stop the burning of tears in her throat. It was only coincidence that they'd ended up beside each other, that their seats had been together. A cruel, painful coincidence. But at the same time, it felt right; as much as it hurt, she felt a strange contentment as well.

She drew back from him and fastened her own seatbelt as the plane began to inch forward. He'd always hated that part the most, waiting to slowly gather speed with the mounting tension of the takeoff. She couldn't stop now; it was like an instinct. A sick, cruel, painful, tormenting instinct.

His head was turned away from her, toward the aisle, and she leaned over once more, this time sliding her hand under his cheek and gently turning his head back to face her. She traced his jaw with trembling fingers, brushed away a stray bit of hair from his eyes.

"Will?"

Sometimes he had answered, occasionally he had already been too deeply asleep to hear her, and this time he was somewhere in between. His eyelashes fluttered, as if he would open his eyes, and she fancied she heard a low growl deep in his throat.

"Will, we're taking off now," she tried again, hoping selfishly for a response. Any response at all. She was tired of being alone. He showed no further signs of having heard her, and she settled instead for raising the armrest between them and pulling his hand into her lap, lacing their fingers, and brushing his cheek with her thumb before settling back in her seat.

It felt right, damn it. She'd know then what she'd wanted. And she'd thought then that she knew what she needed. Two different things in her mind. But in truth?

Her thoughts raced as the plane gathered speed, and as it pulled up she turned to the window to watch the ground drop away. The swooping sensation in her stomach paired with the view outside brought a small smile to her lips, despite her erratic thoughts. Will had always hated the window seat, and she'd always loved it. Complete opposites.

That small realization didn't ease her confusion and uncertainty; if anything it made her thoughts more disordered, and caused her more disquiet than before. The plane leveled out then, and once the lighted seatbelt indicator flickered off she reached across again to unfasten Will's. She forced herself to recall her fiancé, kept her hands deliberately away from Will's toned stomach, and once he was free she laid his hand gently back on the seat beside him. She didn't go as far as putting the armrest back between them, however.

It grew relatively quiet, as most of the other passengers became absorbed in movies or music, and she was free to watch the little patchwork of fields and suburban communities pass below the plane and try to puzzle out what the hell Will had meant with the ferry boat comments. She stared first at the ground and then at the clouds, waited what felt like hours for it come to her, until at last she remembered.

He'd kissed her once, on a ferry boat, in New York. They'd been going out to see the Statue of Liberty, and it had been absolutely freezing and he'd wrapped her in his black wool coat. Almost with longing she remembered the feel of the sleek material under her fingers, expensive and thick, recalled how his scent was all around her, could almost taste the frigid autumn air. It had started to snow, uncharacteristically heavily for the end of October, and he'd mumbled something in her ear and spun her around and kissed her.

It hadn't been their first kiss, or their last kiss, and it hadn't been a particularly special occasion. It wasn't romantic in the least. It had been an impulsive outing, she recalled, because Will had grown bored with their walk in Central Park. Still, she didn't know how she could possibly have forgotten; the day hadn't been especially romantic or life-changing, but it had certainly been perfect.

There was an anxiety rising in her chest as she pushed away the now-painful memory and thought instead of what Richard would say when she made the phone call and told him she'd missed her connection. Or rather how much he'd shout and swear at her. He was supposed to meet her at Heathrow, but a late flight would mean him having to rearrange his entire schedule. And he wouldn't be happy.

There was also an unfamiliar ache, something unrelated to nerves. She knew now, allowed herself at last to realize it and admit it, that she'd made a very big mistake three years ago. She had a thing for ferry boats, too.

_...to be continued..._


	2. From A Plane Crash

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_A Year On An Airplane  
Chapter 2: ...From A Plane Crash_

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_Slowly, she let herself into his apartment, closed the door behind her, and abandoned her key on the little table in the hallway. Her father was right, and her friends were right; she deserved the best. And a future in a tiny New York apartment wasn't what she'd been imagining for herself._

"_Will?"_

_It was darker than usual, and if she hadn't been accustomed to the layout of the short hallway she would have tripped over his sandals, or the pair of identical black umbrellas propped against the wall, or the messenger bag kicked half-under the hall table. _

_Her heels clicked on the polished wood floor, echoed around the high ceiling, and the unfamiliar sound set her nerves on edge and reinforced what she meant to do; ordinarily her shoes would have been left in the doorway, as she made herself comfortable for a long evening curled up on his sofa. _

_Remembering things like that would get her nowhere. She'd lose her nerve._

"_Will?"_

_Her tone was stronger than she'd expected, not betraying the wild mix of emotions twisting her stomach and holding her heart in her throat. It was so dark. His apartment was never this dark. Perhaps he'd gone out?_

_She wanted to run. She certainly didn't want to wait for him. Maybe she could reconsider the entire thing and he'd never even know what she meant to do. _

"_Elizabeth?"_

_She stopped her progress down the hallway, tears springing to her eyes, although she did her best to keep them from falling. He sounded so hopeful…. He thought she'd come to accept him. _

_She forced herself to keep walking, tracing his voice to the cramped sitting room, and when at last she reached the doorway she found him standing near the window. The glass was fogged, as if he'd been resting his forehead against the window and breathing hard. Now, however, he was watching her with rapt attention. _

"_Will, I…I can't." _

_Her voice broke, and she ended on a quiet sob. She wished desperately for another way, a way she could do this without hurting him. It took everything she had to maintain eye contact with him, but she owed him that much, at least. _

"_I thought you could," he returned softly. God, why didn't he shout at her? It would be easier if he shouted at her. "I wouldn't have asked if I'd known you were unhappy."_

"_I'm not unhappy," she assured him quickly. Or tried to assure him; her tears gave her away. It was the last thing she wanted him to think. She hadn't been unhappy a single day since she'd met him, until now, and only because now she was leaving him. She couldn't leave him._

"_You are," he replied, in a most unhelpful manner, still composed and gentle. But there was confusion behind his eyes, as if he found her words entirely incomprehensible. They were beginning to confuse her as well, despite having rehearsed everything a thousand times on the walk over._

"_I'm not ready, Will. I need more."_

_Mistake._

_She was ready. She wanted his ring on her finger, wanted him to take it from the green velvet case and put it on her hand. But she did need more, and that part wasn't a lie; she needed to return his promise, the promise he'd spoken to her the night before._

"_More than I can offer? Or more than I've given you?" He was still steady and composed, but he was also scrutinizing her. His eyes were intense, incredulous, injured._

_Her breath caught in her throat; she hadn't expected him to be so direct. Was he too poor, or had he failed her in the relationship? Neither, her heart screamed. A quarter-million dollars every year would be enough, and it was only his starting salary. It was less, of course, when converted into pounds, but they'd be living in New York and it wouldn't matter. She'd be working, too. It was enough. More than enough._

"_I need the best," she ground out, her voice high and wavering and choked with tears. They weren't her words, and she stared hard and determinedly at the floor as she said them. They were her father's words, her aunt's words, the words her mother had written years ago in a letter, for her to read when she came of age. She deserved the best, needed the best, she owed it to her family to have the best and keep up the pristine reputation generations before her had built. _

_In their eyes, William Turner wasn't the best._

"_But what do you _want_?" _

_She flicked her eyes back up at that. He sounded a bit exasperated, not to mention desperate; he knew her family as well as she did. _

"_I need…I want a chance to get out. It's too complicated, Will." The first truth she'd spoken the entire evening; complicated didn't being to describe it. "I want out. The key…I've left my key on the hall table."_

"_I won't see you again." _

_It wasn't a question, not really. He knew. He'd read it behind her eyes as only he could._

"_No. I can't…I can't see you again."_

_It was too late to back out now. She'd already jumped. It had made sense in her head, and it had made sense this morning, and it had made perfect sense and seemed entirely rational on the walk over to his apartment. But now…? _

_He stepped forward and she drew a shuddering breath, both craving his touch and afraid of it at the same time. She was nowhere near prepared for the pain it would cause her, if he were to be gentle with her still, after everything. She wasn't prepared for it, but she had no choice but to endure it; she certainly couldn't pull away from him. He cupped her chin in one hand and tilted her face up, scanning her eyes rapidly, and his other hand settled on her waist._

_His warmth was intoxicating. She felt so cold…._

"_Truthfully Elizabeth, is this what you want?"_

_No, no, no, no._

"_Yes."_

"_I won't stop you, then," he replied on a pained sigh, although he didn't release her. Not until he'd pressed his lips to her forehead. "Find what you're looking for, love. I'll be here if things turn out badly."_

_She threw herself at him then, held tight around his chest and let her tears fall freely and soak into his shirt, and he smoothed her hair and whispered that he understood. And she believed him. William Turner was the only man in the world who had enough compassion to let his almost-fiancé go, with nothing more than her assurance that it was truly what she wanted. _

"_It's nothing you've done, Will," she breathed against him. "I swear it."_

"_You'll call if you need me? Anything at all?" She could hardly believe the words, but numbly, she nodded her assent and tentatively glanced up to catch his eyes. He smiled then, sadly. "Take your key."_

_She couldn't look at him after that, and no matter how much she wanted one final kiss, she couldn't bring herself to do it. It didn't seem real, the things she'd said, and how deeply she'd just hurt the only man she'd ever really loved. Reluctantly, she broke from him and backed toward the doorway, unwilling to turn her back on him. _

_He watched her go with the same patient love he'd always shown her, soft eyes holding her gaze until she ducked into the hall. She would have broken down again, if he'd turned his back on her. _

_She moved in a kind of trance down the short hallway, pausing at the table by the door with her fingers poised to slide the apartment key, her key, back into her possession. She wouldn't be back, she knew it, and Will would have to pay the landlord to replace the mislaid key. _

_He called to her from the sitting room then, reading her silence and hesitation to leave in the same flawless way he'd always read her. He didn't sound bitter or angry, but a little exasperated and definitely morose. _

"_Go on, Elizabeth._ _For once in your life, stop worrying about money. Take the damned key."_

_It was the only encouragement she needed. Within seconds the dull brass key was in her pocket and she was out the door--feeling entirely lost._

She woke slowly, drawing out the painful transition from nightmare to reality. The dream was one she'd suffered through before, too many times to remember; an identical version of the events that had occurred that day in the apartment. She'd been free from it for a short while, nothing for the last six months, at least, but seeing Will again after so much time had brought it back more vividly than ever.

Coming a little closer to consciousness, and finding herself far more comfortable than she'd ever been on an airplane in her life, her hazy thoughts wandered down the same path as always after waking from the dream. Guilt, regret, frustration….

She had felt completely vindicated then, in turning him down. She had been influenced by what little family she had, her father especially, and their expectations had been so high…. She was hardly twenty-two, straight out of college, and her closest friends were moving into powerful positions with high-profile companies; she wanted that, too. She was far too easily influenced then, although fiercely independent at heart, and she hadn't quite managed to shake off the pressure to conform to their standards. She'd even convinced herself that their way was the right way.

But she couldn't blame the situation entirely on her friends and family. She'd had a choice. They hadn't forced her to say those things to Will. She had been weak and stupid, full of impossibly big dreams and ambitions too high for anyone to keep up with, much less Will. She'd wanted everything to fall into place in an instant; he'd had a plan, long-term, and she hadn't really believed in him. She hadn't been interested in waiting.

She could have given him a chance, at least, or tried to talk to him. It wouldn't have been their first serious conversation, and it likely wouldn't have been their last. He would have fixed everything for her. _Why_ had she turned him down so quickly?

Stifling a yawn, trying very hard to push away the residual images and emotions of the dream, she brought a hand up to wipe away the tears she knew were streaked down her cheeks. Sure enough, her fingers came away wet. She always cried when she had the dream.

Her other hand, however, refused to move. _She_ couldn't move, now she thought about it. And she was warmer than when she'd fallen asleep; she'd sacrificed her jacket to use as a pillow. She was almost ready to slip back into sleep, not the least bit curious about why she felt so comfortable, but then hot breath against her neck drew her back to consciousness. A sharp shiver ran up her spine, a pleasant one, and she felt his breath again and knew.

Will was the only one who could ever cause such a response with so little effort. He exhaled again, a blast of warmth against the sensitive spot behind her ear, where he'd always been fond of kissing her. She swallowed hard in response, trying to quell the little moan of longing rising in her throat. She tried to convince herself that it didn't count, that she was still almost asleep, that she wasn't thinking clearly.

But it did, and she wasn't, and she most definitely knew. Slowly, she opened her eyes and turned her head just enough to catch sight of Will. Her lips almost brushed his cheek, he was so close; he had his face buried in her hair, his arms wrapped around her waist, and he was leaning heavily against her shoulder. She knew he hadn't taken up the position on purpose when she glanced down at his hands; while one was wrapped firmly around her stomach, the other was occupied with her own hand. _She_ had been the one to lace their fingers, sometime over the course of the flight; her hand was resting atop his, not the other way around.

Her first instinct was to pull away and end the contact all together, but she forced herself to pause and consider the implications; Will would wake up, and that was one awkward moment she'd rather avoid if at all possible. And she didn't really _want_ to pull away at all. She still cared for him, still loved him, still wanted him to hold her.

That was incredibly selfish, and she immediately felt guilty. It wasn't fair to him, for her to show up and start her games again. For all she knew, he could have a fiancé as well. _She_ certainly had one.

It would be best to pretend as if nothing had ever happened, and hope he didn't wake up before she could get free of his grip. She couldn't keep playing with the idea of loving Will; her decision was made, and she was wearing Richard's ring. It was good to see him after so long apart, and definitely relieving to know he was getting on well without her, but she'd have to let him go again. The one consolation was that it wouldn't be half as painful this time.

What did she really expect to do once they reached London, anyway? She certainly couldn't meet up with him again, not with her impending marriage to Richard; he wouldn't stand for her to have a friendship with her ex-almost-fiancé. But Will would be in the same city. There was always the possibility they would run into each other….

Her breath caught in her chest, almost painfully. It was the first time she had ever seriously considered infidelity, and she didn't like the paranoid feeling it brought, as if Richard was sitting on the next aisle over and reading her thoughts. Will would never agree to that, anyway.

She didn't want their relationship to _be_ that. If she couldn't have him honestly, it was better she didn't at all. True, they had never suffered a lack of intimacy, but their relationship had been so much more than that; the occasional shag wouldn't be enough, for either of them.

"'Lizabeth…."

For a wild, panicked moment she thought he was awake, but then he nuzzled her neck and made a sleepy sound somewhere between a growl and a moan. She bit her tongue to stop herself making a similar noise. That awkward moment seemed to be looming a bit closer.

Trying to be both very cautious and very gentle, she pulled away the hand that held his, holding her breath for a second or two after in anticipation of a response. Much to her relief, he stayed both silent and still. That was the easy part done with; now the problem of how to get his arms from around her. It looked rather hopeless from her current position, and for a moment she considered simply feigning sleep until he woke up himself and released her. That could take ages, as she was fairly certain he'd done a thorough job with the pills.

Seeing no other way, she began to pry his arms from around her. His grip was firm and she was forced to pull a bit harder than she thought was entirely safe, but eventually she succeeded in sliding his arm from around her waist and lifted the other from her lap. She was just beginning to work out how she'd get his head from her shoulder when he pulled back of his own accord.

Quickly, the instant he'd ended all contact with her, she made a dive for Pride and Prejudice and ripped it open, sprawling casually in her chair and hoping he wouldn't catch on to their former position.

The entire idea had been not to lead him on. She didn't want to hurt him again. She didn't want to hurt herself again, and any discussion of what had just passed would definitely bring back painful memories.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as he gave a huge yawn and arched his back in a stretch. He never had been very alert the instant he woke up, from what she could recall, so perhaps he hadn't noticed anything. She held her breath while he shook off the lingering results of the pills he'd taken before, until at last he turned to her, looking slightly puzzled.

"Elizabeth, was I--"

"Snoring? Oh, yes, quite loudly. You were a terrible nuisance." She quickly forced her eyes to the open pages of her book, effectively avoiding his gaze. She realized too late that Pride and Prejudice was upside down, and turned to the blank back cover and the empty last page. Damn.

"But I don't…." He started to protest, but then she felt his eyes travel from her quickly reddening cheeks to her book. "Bloody hell. I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I shouldn't have--"

"It wasn't entirely your fault," she broke in rapidly, interrupting him for the second time and wishing quite sincerely that he'd drop the entire thing. Perhaps if she could play it off casually enough, he'd forget anything ever happened. She hoped like hell they were getting close to Washington.

Trying not to be too conspicuous, she folded her book closed and hauled her carry-on bag into her lap. She found the Cosmopolitan she'd bought at the airport in Seattle, slid her bag back to the floor, and glimpsed at the front cover.

_16 Erotic Positions To Drive Your Man Wild._

It took a moment for the bright pink letters to register, but once she understood she made quick work of ripping the magazine open to any page besides the front.

Page 67. Illustrations of aforementioned erotic positions.

Will gave a choked cough, retrieved a copy of the Wall Street Journal from his own bag, and buried his nose in the stock quotes. Elizabeth couldn't blame him in the least.

They passed the remaining half-hour of the flight in awkward silence, avoiding each others glances and pretending to be enthralled by their reading material--Elizabeth snatched away the front section of the Journal shortly after the Cosmopolitan incident--until the lighted seatbelt sign flicked on. As one, the other passengers on the plane began shuffling their belongings, packing everything away in their carry-on bags.

Will didn't move, probably for fear of drawing her attention and inspiring another conversation. It was why _she _wasn't moving. The entire thing was ridiculous, of course. They knew very well how those ink-drawing positions worked, but it was the inappropriate sense of longing inspired by the illustrations that made her hide behind a newspaper; Richard wasn't exactly an up-against-the-refrigerator type of guy. Will, however….

"You didn't mention the flight was delayed."

His voice caught her off guard; she flicked her eyes up from the paper with a startled jump, feeling the heat in her cheeks again. _Those_ thoughts needed to go away. Very, very far away. To hell, even. To hell with William Turner sex fantasies.

He was still watching her, both expectantly and a little curiously, all traces of the previous awkwardness gone. She forced out an answer, although her voice was a little choked.

"Two hours," she confirmed. "I've missed my connection."

"The two-thirty to London?" he asked, at last folding his paper and returning it to his bag. She nodded, taking a moment to track down Pride and Prejudice and fasten her seatbelt. Will did the same. "That was mine as well"

They fell silent as the plane began its descent, and it wasn't until they had emerged from the departure gate that Will spoke again. She had been silently wondering what happened next--if they parted ways or stayed together--but he seemed to have an answer.

"Luggage first, then we can check the schedule." He began walking, presumably in the direction of luggage claim. Feeling inexplicably happy, she followed without protest. "I'm sure you'll want to call Richard. I can take care of the tickets if you like. You'll want the next available for London?"

"The earliest," she assured him, more than willing to spend a bit more time in his company.

They stopped off at luggage claim, Will hauling both their suitcases from the conveyor and dragging them along and absolutely refusing to let her do her share of the work. Typical of him, of course. The next flight to London wasn't until nine o'clock; with the time difference it was already four in the afternoon in Washington, but that still meant a five hour layover. Still, at least there was a flight out.

She left her connection ticket with Will, feeling a bit doubtful that he would manage the impossible feat of persuading the airline to switch them for the later flight without a fee. He seemed confident enough, however, so she left him to it. She had far more unpleasant things to worry about.

She promised to meet him back at the ticket counter, relented at his insistence that he'd watch her suitcase, and moved a good distance away to get out of earshot. For some reason she didn't feel comfortable with Will hearing the type of conversation she knew she was about to have with Richard.

She swallowed hard to steel her nerve, then dialed the number that would connect her to him internationally. She waited, listening impatiently to the static that crackled over the line, until at last the phone began to ring on his end. Once, twice…three times with no response. Quickly, she calculated the time difference. Four in the afternoon in Washington, nine o'clock in London. What could Richard possibly--

"Richard Lacey," he barked down the line, in the tone he used when doing business. The generic greeting told her that he hadn't even checked to see who was calling. It sounded as if he'd been in the middle of something strenuous, with the way he was panting into the phone.

"Darling, it's Elizabeth. The flight--"

"What's going on, Liz? Shouldn't you be in the air by now?"

"That's what I'm trying to explain," she prompted patiently, all too familiar with the way he tended to interrupt when he was distracted. And he certainly sounded distracted. "My flight from Seattle was delayed, and I've missed my connection. The next flight to London--"

"You what?" he barked sharply, and she seemed to have his full attention now. She heard a rustle of fabric from his end of the phone. "_Damn it, not now_!" he hissed, his voice coming from very far off, as if he were holding the phone at arm's length. Another rustle of fabric, then he was speaking directly to her again. "I've already arranged for the car to be at Heathrow, Elizabeth. How hard is it to make a connection?"

His condescending tone threatened to spark her own temper, although she struggled to keep her voice even. They couldn't have one of their shouting matches in the middle of an airport.

"It wasn't my fault. I didn't _ask _them to hold the flight back." She realized that she was beginning to sound a bit defensive, but it couldn't be helped. It seemed like she was constantly fighting to prove herself to him. "The next one leaves at nine tonight. I'll be on it, Richard, and I'll be in London by ten tomorrow morning. I'll see you then, and-"

"Fine," he growled down the line, his voice suddenly husky. The scrape of furniture met her ears. Was he_ seriously_ rearranging the flat while they had a phone conversation? The man was unbelievable. "I'll have the car waiting."

"Don't just send the car, darling," she appealed after a moment. It wasn't the first time she'd gotten the impression that there was something coming between them. He'd been so busy for the past couple of months, the arguments becoming more frequent and strained between them, neither putting forward enough effort to reconcile…. "Meet me at the gate. We can go out for coffee--"

"I've got a meeting, Elizabeth. For God's sake, can't you take the car and pick up something for yourself on the way?" She had his full attention again, from whatever was so damned interesting in the London flat. His words were irritated and impatient. Her eyes narrowed in incredulous annoyance. "And no coffee; I need you to go back to the flat and sleep. Father and I are having dinner with the prime minister tomorrow night, you're coming, and I don't want you looking jet-lagged."

"Richard, you can't be serious," she shot back, her tone heating up as well. She knew it was only a matter of moments before the conversation degenerated into an argument. "The last thing I want to do is go to one of your damn dinner parties. It's my first night back in London!"

"Don't be a bitch, Lizzie. You're my fiancé, and you have to come." His voice made the transition from sharp almost-shouting to the deep, silky caress he used when he wanted something from her. "I'll make it up to you once we get back to the flat."

"I'm not having make-up sex with you," she snarled, and although her tone was hard she still felt tears stinging her eyes. That was his answer for everything. A serious conversation with Richard would be a sign of the apocalypse. "Just send the car to Heathrow."

"Nice of you to see reason," Richard drawled in response, all sarcasm and impatience. She wanted so badly to hang up on him and have the conversation done with. "I love you, Elizabeth."

"I love you as well, darling," she forced out, the expected response that would end the call quickly.

"Good girl," he purred in her ear. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

He killed the connection before she could reply, much to her relief. She snapped her phone closed with a sigh, pausing to wipe away the tears burning her eyes before she went back in search of Will. Richard hadn't been any more terrible to her than he usually was, but it still hurt on the occasions when she realized he cared more about himself than her. And this was one of those occasions.

She tried to fake composure as she pushed her way back through the crowds toward the ticket counter where she'd left Will. The sounds she'd heard over the phone from Richard's end refused to give her any peace of mind. The heavy breathing and scraping furniture could be explained by the possibility of him rearranging the flat, but the rustling fabric was another scenario entirely. It hadn't been a pulling-aside-the-curtains type of sound, that much she knew.

She refused to let her suspicions go that way again. She'd already confronted him once, asked him point-blank if he was or had ever cheated, and he'd denied it. She believed him. Richard may have been conceited and selfish, but he wasn't stupid; someone with his social and political standing couldn't afford a scandal.

But the suspicion simply wouldn't leave her alone. She was almost disgusted by the lack of faith she had in him, but the worry was there despite how she felt about it. She couldn't control it. She felt like a traitor for even thinking it of him.

She spotted Will not far from the ticket counter, sitting outside one of the many airport cafés at a long table meant to seat eight. He had a laptop computer set up, a portfolio and a blank legal pad on the table beside it, and as she watched he stood and hauled his suitcase up on the table as well.

"Hope you like first class," he told her with a broad grin, thrusting a plane ticket at her with one hand and unzipping his suitcase with the other. She took it from him and stared for a moment, searching for the price and the seat number printed on the ticket, sure that he was joking. He wasn't.

The table and chairs were high, forcing her to make a small leap in order to slide up into the chair across from the one he had recently occupied. She laid the ticket on the table rather than putting it away in her bag, unwilling to take the favor without first repaying him for it.

"Will, I can't accept this," she told him softly, careful not to give the impression of ungratefulness. Tentatively, she swung her legs out to kick at her suitcase as she awaited an answer. She was almost afraid that it would lead to a discussion about his finances, something she had always tried very hard to avoid.

"Course you can," he returned with a shrug, tugging out two ties from his bag, one a deep maroon and the other navy with white stripes. He held them up, and without knowing why she chose the red one, almost as if she made a habit of picking out his clothes. "I won't have any company if you don't. You don't mind that our seats are together again, do you?"

"I…no, I don't." It was the truth. She'd almost been hoping that they'd get to spend a bit more time together. Had she just agreed to take the ticket?

"And you _can't _like flying coach," he added, peeling off his blazer and flinging it over the back of the chair.

"First class is preferable," she conceded, and slid the ticket into her purse. There never had been any point in arguing with him over gifts and surprises. "Will, what are you_ doing_?"

His t-shirt had followed the blazer, and he was standing bare-chested in the middle of the airport, earning a number of appraising stares from passing women. Elizabeth failed miserably at averting her own eyes; they wandered down his chest to his toned abs, a six-pack bordering on eight-pack.

"Business meeting," he explained, and lifted an amused eyebrow as he noticed where her eyes had been fixed. "Seattle can't get on without me. Lucky we missed the connection, really, or this would have to wait until I was in London." He took a slightly creased button down shirt from his suitcase, a deep black color that would clash terribly with his maroon tie, in her opinion, and began to quickly get dressed.

She didn't ask what the meeting was about, choosing instead to watch him do up the buttons of his shirt until the last glimpse of his tanned chest was covered. She was ready to offer her help with the tie--Richard never could manage to get it straight--but Will had it knotted and was straightening his collar before she could find the words.

She wondered briefly if he meant to get rid of his shredded jeans and trade them for business attire as well, but then he threw the t-shirt into his suitcase and zipped it closed again. She felt a bit cheated, if she were entirely honest with herself.

"I'll bring you back something," he offered, tugging his blazer back on and gesturing to the café behind them. The blazer was the same shade of black as his shirt, and together with the maroon tie, the outfit didn't look terrible at all. Disregarding the frayed rips in the knees of his pants, of course.

"I'm fine, Will," she assured him. "Not at all hungry." The argument with Richard had completely ruined her appetite, even after spending six hours trapped on an airplane. The relentless, unwelcome suspicion of infidelity was holding her stomach in knots.

"Did the phone call go okay?" he pressed, pausing long enough to await an answer. She had his full attention, and the genuine worry behind his eyes surprised her. They weren't going to have this conversation.

"Everything's fine, Will. It's only jet-lag." The excuse was ridiculous, and she could tell he wasn't at all deceived by her insistence, but he let it go. Much to her relief.

She was beginning to wonder exactly how he intended to have a business meeting in the middle of the airport, but then she noticed the tiny camera lens embedded just above the screen of his laptop, and the Bluetooth earpiece lying atop the keyboard. A video conference, then.

He came back from the café and went straight into business mode, sparing her only a glance and a small smile as he slid into his chair and began banging keys to connect him to his meeting. He attached the Bluetooth to his ear and flipped open the portfolio on the table beside him. The computer was situated at a slight angle, allowing her to catch a glimpse of a boardroom and no fewer than twelve executives seated around a long table, but then Will slid the laptop closer and ruined her view.

She'd never seen him quite so serious before, and his eyes had gone hard. He listened for a moment, one hand pressing the Bluetooth close against his ear to block out the noise of the airport, before launching himself very smoothly into the conversation at hand. Eyes on the computer screen, he began taking notes without looking at the yellow legal pad beside him.

Elizabeth took her cue from a similar experience with Richard; she gathered her purse and magazine and moved four chairs down, to save Will barking a request for privacy. She concentrated once more on her Cosmopolitan until she saw the café waitress from the corner of her eye. Quickly, she slid from her chair and took a step forward, intending to catch the girl before she committed the unforgivable sin of interrupting a business meeting. Too late, however; the girl marched boldly up to Will's end of the table and slid a tray with two sandwiches and two sodas up beside the computer.

Elizabeth held her breath and sat down again, waiting for the expected explosion of temper, but it never came. Will actually paused his participation in the meeting long enough to thank the waitress and retrieve a tip for the girl from his wallet.

His eyes jumped to the empty chair across from him, where she had been before, and confusion clouded his eyes for a moment before he caught sight of her down the table. He cocked his head and threw her a curious glance, but forced his eyes back to the computer screen a moment later, taking notes again.

The yellow legal pad slid down the length of the table.

_Come back, you idiot. Unless you don't enjoy handsome men treating you to lunch. _

Elizabeth had to read it twice before the meaning registered. Will actually _wanted _her down his end of the table. He really looked quite bored with the way he clicked his pen, and although he was sitting inhumanly straight in his chair she could hear the steady thunk-thunk sound as he kicked out repeatedly at the table leg.

She wasn't sure how to respond, but knowing that she wouldn't be able to speak to him she quickly searched for a pen and scribbled a reply. A rather articulate '_Oh._' She flung the legal pad back down to him, he stopped it deftly by slamming his palm down atop it, still not looking away from the screen, and she moved back to occupy the chair across from him.

He flicked his eyes down to read her answer just as she slid into her chair, and she saw a smile tug at his lips for a moment before he pushed the tray of food toward her. The sandwiches were grilled Italian paninis, stuffed with ham and an unidentifiable type of cheese, and something that resembled lettuce. She took the first cautious bite, marveled at Will's ability to find decent food in an airport, and felt that perhaps she was hungry after all.

Will's meeting stretched for another half-hour, but he didn't seem to have any qualms about eating and doing business at the same time. His associates were either used to it or incredibly tolerant. At one point he slid the legal pad back across to her, a game of hangman started, but there was no way she was going to distract him. She puzzled over the blanks for a moment, refusing to guess letters, until she found a likely phrase that would fit the spaces he'd given her and filled it in.

_Ferry boat_.

She gave the legal pad back to him, smiling a bit at the way he sighed once he realized she didn't intend to play. The meeting was over shortly after, and he pulled the Bluetooth from his ear and slumped back in the chair, raking a hand through his hair.

"That bad?" she asked, curious to see his reaction in relation to Richard's after a business meeting. Surprisingly, he smirked.

"They're all incompetent. Nothing new, really."

That was it. No ranting, no swearing, no slamming the computer closed and flinging his pen across the table. She wondered exactly what position he held in the office. He'd done his share of talking, giving figures from memory and dropping names, and the legal pad now had three pages of messy notes in addition to their short communication and the failed hangman game. She couldn't begin to understand the portfolio he'd used, either. From the jokingly arrogant tone he'd just answered her with, however, she guessed his role in the meeting wasn't as glamorous as it had appeared. He probably wasn't even that high up in the company at all.

"Are you happy, Elizabeth?"

The sudden question caught her off guard. He was considering her from across the table, still casually lounging in his chair, but his eyes were sharp. She'd forgotten how it felt to have a serious conversation with him, and this was certainly one of them.

"With Richard?" she returned, hoping to delay an answer. Truthfully, she wasn't entirely sure if she was happy or not. She didn't want to admit to Will the doubt she'd felt, however briefly, about her engagement.

"Well, I assumed you were happy with _him_. You wouldn't be engaged to him if you weren't. I meant generally. You aren't writing at all, are you? What happened to journalism?"

"How do you know I'm not writing?" Again he caught her off guard. The observation was so specific….

"I remember your internship with the New York Times. You couldn't go half an hour without scribbling something down in your notebook. Now you don't even carry one, from what I've seen today."

"I haven't written for anyone since the New York Times," she admitted at last, because she knew it would be impossible to divert the conversation. She felt walls going up, her instinctive defense against Richard's occasional accusing questions. Will was shifting into one of his protective moods, and she'd be forced to ride it out. "Richard and I decided it wasn't necessary for me to be bothered with it. We aren't exactly desperate for income."

Too defensive. And Will could undoubtedly detect the lie from a mile away; there had been no 'Richard and I' to the situation at all, only 'Richard'. She waited for Will's response, but he didn't give one immediately. The corner of his mouth twitched down, almost as if he would scowl at her explanation, and his eyes narrowed a bit as he studied her. Eventually, much to her surprise, he relented.

"Just wondered if you still loved it as much as you used to," he muttered at last. He shrugged off his blazer and loosened his tie enough to slip it over his head. His fingers fumbled with the top two buttons of his shirt. "London's the right choice?" he asked, succeeding with the buttons.

"London's right." She deliberately kept her eyes on his, well away from the bit of his chest that was exposed. "The wedding's in St. James Park." Will didn't bother to respond.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Will offered to watch the bags and suggested that she do a bit of shopping, apologizing insincerely for the requisite hour or two he needed to spend working. They needed the break after the discussion, as things were becoming awkward between them again, so Elizabeth took up the offer and wandered through the airport shops, although she didn't end up buying anything for her efforts.

Will had coffee and doughnuts waiting when she returned, his work apparently done, and the smile he treated her to as she slid into the chair across from him made her breath catch in her throat. He was devastatingly handsome when he smiled, at least in her opinion. The small disagreement was entirely forgotten.

They shared copies of the London Times, USA Today, the New York Times, and the crumpled pages of Will's Wall Street Journal, falling into easy yet meaningless conversations about current events and movie reviews. Will eventually began folding the newspaper pages into little airplanes and flinging them at passersby, and Elizabeth decided it was time to check their bags and move on to the gate. She'd forgotten that traveling with Will could sometimes be reminiscent of traveling with a five-year-old.

They waited in the lineup to check their luggage, waited to be examined at two different security checkpoints, and waited again once they'd found the gate. Will didn't seem too impatient, but she would be perfectly happy if she never had to see Washington again. Still, it could be worse; they could be sleeping in the airport, rather than on the plane.

Eventually they were called to board, and Will led the way down the corridor and onto the plane. She'd flown first-class a few times since she began dating Richard, but the accommodations on this plane put her past experiences to shame. First-class was separated from the rest of the plane by a sliding door, and she had the suspicion that sound wouldn't carry through from the less expensive seating sections. There were twenty-four reclining chairs, paired up in rows, one down the middle and one on each side of the cabin.

Will hadn't paused to take in the cabin at all, instead going straight for their seats and throwing himself down in the leather recliner as if he were in his own sitting room. There was more than enough room to lay the seat back entirely, and before she had even moved from the doorway he was lounging back comfortably with the foot rest kicked up.

As she slipped past him and dropped into her own chair, separated from his by a few inches, she watched him yawn and roll his shoulders back and stretch his arms above his head. She remembered the move with a pang of longing, and also noticed that the leather armchairs were large enough for her to curl in beside him; if she had been in the chair with him she'd have her head over his chest, be pressed up against his side, and when he was done stretching one arm would come back to drape around her shoulders.

She watched him complete the move as expected, one arm folded behind his head for a pillow, eyes closed, but his free hand plunged into his messenger bag rather than around her shoulders. _She_ was supposed to be where the bag was, nestled against him.

Richard. She loved Richard. It was Richard's ring she had accepted.

"Try something with a bit of substance, love. I don't know your opinion, but _I'm_ sick of Mr. Bloody Darcy."

Startled from her thoughts, Elizabeth automatically took the dog-eared book he offered, a tattered copy of Treasure Island. She almost missed the teasing grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Jealous of your competition?" she shot back without thinking, realizing too late what had been implied by the comment. Will realized it too; he sat up and snapped his eyes open, watching her with rapt attention.

"Mr. Turner?"

He immediately tore his attention away at the heavy Spanish accent asking for him, a smile lighting up his eyes. The stewardess who had spoken was tall and curvy, dark hair and dark eyes and tanned skin.

"Mélanie," Will returned warmly, her name rolling off his tongue in a way that Elizabeth found entirely improper. The stewardess offered him a drink, a small glass of amber liquid, which he gratefully accepted and threw back in one long gulp. Suspicious, as he hadn't ordered anything. "Spending time in London, I hope?" he continued, pulling out his wallet and giving her a rather generous ten dollar tip.

"You know better," Mélanie purred. "Straight back to Washington. Perhaps next time, _mi querido_." The girl turned to go, presumably to carry on with her duties to the other passengers, but Elizabeth had the presence of mind to glimpse at her ring finger before she left. No wedding band, and no engagement ring. She allowed herself a small sigh of relief.

"You know her?" Elizabeth asked, trying very hard to sound casual. The lighted seatbelt sign flicked on, the captain's voice drawling through the speakers in a garbled announcement, and she was forced to wait for Will's answer until the seatbelts were fastened and the cabin was silent.

"Not well," Will shrugged, lying down again. "Met her on a flight to Madrid."

"Know her well enough, I'd wager." Elizabeth mumbled under her breath, her tone distinctly miserable. The mile-high club no doubt gained two new members on that flight to Madrid, judging from the short interaction she'd witnessed between them. Mercifully, Will hadn't heard her.

She knew she didn't really have any justification to judge him. They certainly weren't still together, and he was well within his rights to have a girlfriend. Just not a curvy, foreign, accented one.

"I know her well enough to know that she has three brothers living in London, who she doesn't get to see because of her schedule," Will muttered from her right, and she glanced over to watch him lift an eyebrow. He was smiling. "Wrong of me to hope she gets to visit them?"

Damn. She felt a blush rising in her cheeks, and in the hopes of changing the topic she rummaged through her carry on bag until she found the bottle of pills she'd confiscated from him that morning. The sooner he was asleep, the better, in her opinion; at least then she couldn't make any more idiotic comments.

_Why _was she flirting with him? The competition comment had been entirely out of line. She was also jealous over the stewardess, and she wanted him to say _her_ name like that. She shouldn't want anything from him at all.

"I'll be fine with the rum, Elizabeth," he assured her, hearing the rattle of the bottle she held. That had been the drink, then. She couldn't recall him every having a taste for rum, but three years was certainly long enough for his preferences to change.

They fell silent, Will closing his eyes again and exhaling with a small sigh. He was being very good about the whole thing, ignoring her comments and jealous accusations. She had promised herself not to play games with him, but if she was entirely truthful with herself she knew it was happening because she wanted it to. She wasn't trying hard enough to prevent the flirtation.

Perhaps it was because Richard had been so terrible to her earlier, over the phone. That had to be it. She was starved for affection after three weeks separated from her fiancé, and Will was conveniently close at the moment. That was all. She didn't still have any real feelings for him.

The lights in the cabin dimmed as the plane lifted off, and once the angle evened out she laid her seat back and tried to get comfortable. Will hadn't moved at all, his breathing deep and even, but it was a little too measured for him to be asleep. Like her, he was probably waiting for the signal when they could be free of the seatbelts.

"Will?" she asked softly, at last losing patience with the captain and unfastening the seatbelt prematurely. Will followed suit without opening his eyes.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you." She hoped he would take it to mean for the ticket, but she knew that she had meant it for more than that. He had absolutely no obligation to be civil to her, after everything she'd done to him, yet he'd still shown her the same patient love she remembered giving up on three years ago.

"Always, Elizabeth."

Of course he had understood her true meaning. She didn't feel the need to say anything else, and Will didn't seem intent on adding anything, so she closed her eyes and curled up comfortably in her seat.

She dozed for a long while, listening closely to Will's steady breathing beside her until eventually she slipped into sleep.

_Slowly, she let herself into his apartment, closed the door behind her, and abandoned her key on the little table in the hallway. Her father was right, and her friends were right; she deserved the best. And a future in a tiny New York apartment wasn't what she'd been imagining for herself._

"_Will?"_

_It was darker than usual, and if she hadn't been accustomed to the layout of the short hallway she would have tripped over his sandals, or the pair of identical black umbrellas propped against the wall, or the messenger bag kicked half-under the hall table. _

A high-pitched whining noise. Smoke burned her nose.

_Her heels clicked on the polished wood floor, echoed around the high ceiling, and the unfamiliar sound set her nerves on edge and reinforced what she meant to do; ordinarily her shoes would have been left in the doorway, as she made herself comfortable for a long evening curled up on his sofa. _

The unpleasant jolting became harder to ignore.

_Remembering things like that would get her nowhere. She'd lose her nerve._

"_Will?"_

_Her tone was stronger than she'd expected, not betraying the wild mix of emotions twisting her stomach and holding her heart in her throat. It was so dark. His apartment was never this dark. Perhaps he'd gone out?_

_She wanted to run. She certainly didn't want to wait for him. Maybe she could reconsider the entire thing and he'd never even know--_

Pain exploded behind her eyes and seared up her left side, tearing her from the dream so violently that she cried out. Her stomach gave an unpleasant lurch as she felt the floor beneath her shift.

"Elizabeth!"

Will's frantic shout was almost lost amid the shrieking of the other passengers, and she forced her eyes open to search for him, confused. The cabin was entirely dark; the only thing she could tell about her position was that she was currently sprawled across the floor, and from the steady ache in her side she assumed that she'd been struck by something.

She realized the seriousness of the situation as the floor seemed to drop out from beneath her. The plane was in a freefall.

Strong arms latched on around her waist from behind, hauling her up as the whining from the engines became erratic. She was aware that she was trembling, but only because she had the contrast of Will's firm grip to compare herself to.

"Will, what--"

"I don't know," he barked back, throwing them both into a chair and fumbling for the seatbelt. She had been right that they would both fit comfortably, although this wasn't quite how she had imagined the situation.

The plane dipped up for a moment, as if it would regain altitude, and Will succeeded in securing the seatbelt an instant before it plummeted again. The sudden drop brought tears to her eyes as a new realization hit her.

They were going down in the middle of the Atlantic.

Will wrapped his arms around her and pulled her roughly against him. She could smell him, his still-familiar scent rushing over her all at once, and the close proximity started her crying in a way the plane crash couldn't. Instinctively, she clung to him and pressed her face into his shoulder.

"It's all right, Elizabeth," he breathed near her ear, his cheek pressed against her hair, but there was a frightened shudder behind the words that unnerved her. The plane jumped again, and without thinking she clutched her fingers tighter into the fabric of his shirt.

The passengers in the back had gone silent; the only sounds that reached her ears were the irregular whine of the engines and Will's ragged breathing. After a long, tense, terrified moment the nose of the plane began to tilt upward again, and she heard bags slide across the floor, but still she kept her face pressed into his shoulder. They were regaining altitude, but it seemed to her that the high-pitched straining noise from the engines was increasing just as steadily.

"Will?" Her words came out in a trembling whimper, tears still streaming silently from her eyes and soaking the collar of his shirt. The acrid scent of smoke mixing with diesel fuel burned her throat. The whining from the engines reached a crescendo. "Will, are we going to cr--"

The plane went into another freefall. She choked on the final half of her question, fear dragging a distraught, desperate moan from her throat instead, the closest she would come to the screams from the other passengers.

Will's grip became painfully tight, his voice ragged in her ear.

"I love you."

…_to be continued…_


	3. Arrival

* * *

_A Year On An Airplane  
Chapter 3: Arrival_

* * *

"Will, please, I need you to breathe properly."

She pressed herself closer against him, slid up to lean over him, smoothing back his hair once more in an effort to be comforting. He shuddered beneath her touch.

"Look at me, Will. Open your eyes and look at me."

He continued to tremble beneath her, and the weakness frightened her more than the last fifteen minutes ever could have. The sharp, harsh panting of his breath threatened to drive her into panic, more so when his eyes remained firmly shut.

She knew it was an anxiety attack, or shock, or some combination of the two, even though she'd never seen him quite so upset before. It seemed the instant she'd stopped shaking and sobbing, he'd lost what little composure he'd maintained through the almost plane crash. Quite suddenly she'd found him clinging to her instead of the other way round. It had taken the combined efforts of her and his rum-fetching stewardess to recline the seat and coax him into lying down.

"Will, please."

Her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, fumbled clumsily with the fabric, until at last she succeeded in pushing away both sides of the shirt to reveal skin. She ran her hand firmly down his chest, actually feeling the way his heart skipped the occasional beat and how his lungs heaved with progressively harsher breaths.

Eventually, as she trailed her fingers back up toward his shoulder, he stopped breathing altogether with a sharp little gasp. She fancied it was the realization of skin-against-skin contact, but she wasn't entirely certain. He lifted a hand and curled his fingers around her wrist in a death grip, his chest beginning to rise and fall again with slightly more controlled panting breaths.

"_Shit._"

His voice trembled just as much as his body, slurred and ragged, but relief swept through her all the same. If he was swearing, he wasn't hyperventilating. Slowly, she slid her hand down to his ribcage, traced the same path back to his shoulder, then repeated the move. His breath came a fraction easier.

"Stay here, Will. With me."

This time her prompting was rewarded by him opening his eyes, although they were glazed with confusion. Quickly, she caught his gaze and held it, waiting for the recognition she knew would come. And…there it was. He blinked at her for a moment, dazedly, then he gave her a faint smile. Just as rapidly the smile faded, and his eyes flicked away to take in the rest of the cabin; dimmed lights, bags strewn down the aisles, the faint residual haze of smoke.

"Goddamn bastard pilot," he snarled on a gasp, relinquishing the hold on her wrist. His eyes slipped closed, and he seemed to be consciously trying to regulate his breathing. Another relieving development. It simply wasn't fair for him to worry her like this. She felt the tension draining from her shoulders and chest, and wanted nothing more than to collapse against him and kiss him.

_I love you._

No, he hadn't meant it. He probably didn't even recall saying it.

Ring. Ring, ring, ring. There was a ring around her finger. A ring around the finger of her left hand, which was currently massaging Will's deliciously toned chest. That rather needed to stop.

"I don't think it was entirely the pilot's fault," Elizabeth returned, carefully lying down and curling against him. She couldn't dare leave him. He was an absolute wreck, but at least he was responding to her. Best not to bring up his little confession at all. "Your Spanish tart told me one of the engines caught fire."

"My _what_?"

God, had she said that aloud? It had drawn a reaction, at any rate. Perhaps if she pretended she hadn't said anything at all….

"We'll be in London soon, just under two hours." She had meant for it to be reassuring, possibly a bit distracting from her most recent genius comment, but Will didn't seem too comfortable with the time frame. Or perhaps it had been the engine-on-fire information, as she had failed to mention that everything had been resolved. His breathing began to speed up again, barely discernable, but she caught it. She didn't look forward to finding out if anxiety attacks came with relapses.

Close physical contact had always worked best for calming him--at least, that was her excuse for lifting his arm and guiding it to rest around her shoulders, gently but insistently. He relaxed against her a moment later, and didn't raise objection when she draped her arm across him and rested her head over his heart.

She judged that it would be best to keep her mouth shut entirely. Conversation ground to a stop, save for the occasional small reassurances she muttered into his chest. Her fingers traced along his side in a steady rhythm, eventually soothing his trembling to an occasional brief shiver. His breathing fell in with hers shortly after.

Richard had remained at the back of her mind until this point, but with Will relatively calm for the moment her focus began to wander. It would undoubtedly be best if he never found out about the impromptu cuddling with her ex-almost-fiancé. It would also be best if she said her goodbyes to Will before they made it to the gate, on the chance that Richard exercised one of his rare moments of thoughtfulness and met her.

"You're engaged."

How the hell did he always manage to read her thoughts? She didn't lift her head from his chest, hoping that he wasn't in a mind to chase her back to her own seat. Two hours on this plane wasn't going to be enough time with him.

"I'm fine now," he added when she didn't respond. He did sound fine, and she knew very well that he didn't need her beside him anymore. "We shouldn't…well, like this."

"_I'm_ not fine, Will. Don't make me leave."

She wondered if it was possible to sound any more desperate. She hadn't pleaded with him, and her tone had been even, but Will would listen more to the words than her voice. The words had more meaning than she was willing to admit. She wasn't fine with the prospect of spending the foreseeable future in Richard's West End flat. She wasn't fine with the flight ending. She wasn't fine with Will disappearing from her life again.

"I meant it."

The words rumbled deep in his chest, and she squeezed her eyes shut in a feeble effort to block out his next confession, the one that would surely drive her over the edge. She held her breath to stop the tears that burned her throat, focusing on the slow, steady cadence of his heartbeat. He was real, beside her, tolerating her ridiculous need to touch him and smell him and taste him. She could remember his taste perfectly, despite having not kissed him in three years; cinnamon, mint, another unnamable flavor that was _Will_.

"I know it wasn't necessarily right for me to say it, but I meant it. It wasn't just because I thought the plane was going down. I was going to tell you when we said goodbye."

She wouldn't have the good fortune to hear him repeat the exact words. It wasn't really essential; the memory would be burned into her mind indefinitely. She had to ask.

"What happens when we reach London?"

He held her a bit closer and she instinctively expected a forehead kiss. He sighed instead, and his voice became softer.

"Nothing, love. You made the right choice."

So uncharacteristic of him to give up when he wanted something. But then perhaps she wasn't what he wanted anymore. She'd had her chance, and done a spectacular job of wasting it. It was both naïve and egotistical to think he was even remotely interested in her still.

She didn't trust herself to speak. The tears she wouldn't let fall were choking her, and Will certainly didn't need to know that she wanted him so terribly. If he could be happy without her, there was no point in complicating things. He clearly wanted her to marry Richard and keep out of his life.

"I did," she agreed in a hoarse whisper. There was nothing else to do, really.

Her confirmation of Will's opinion ended the conversation. The rest of the flight passed in silence, slightly uncomfortable silence, although she couldn't quite manage to find the energy to move back to her own seat. Will didn't seem eager to let her go, either. He didn't move at all, and his grip around her shoulders remained firm, until they began to approach Heathrow.

She opened her eyes as the captain made the landing announcement, surprised to find the cabin brighter than before with early-morning light. Reluctantly, wordlessly, she released Will and returned to her seat once the lighted seatbelt indicator flashed on. She avoided his eyes, trying without success to fight back the intense, desperate anxiety warning her not to let him go again.

They hadn't even spent twenty-four hours together, yet Will had managed to show her more attention and devotion than Richard gave her in a month. Already, she missed his warmth and the faint scent of his ridiculously expensive cologne. From the corner of her eye she saw that Will's gaze was turned to the floor, and she turned her own to the window before he could catch her staring.

It was snowing outside, quite heavily. A miracle that the plane could land at all. It accomplished the feat easily enough, however, and before she could find something adequate to say to Will in farewell, the plane had taxied in at the gate and the other passengers were standing and moving for the exit. Will stood as well, just as she forced her eyes back to him.

He seemed perfectly comfortable and composed, his bag slung over his shoulder and his mobile already in one hand. His blazer was buttoned, presumably against the cold he would no doubt face upon leaving the airport, and he'd wound a gray scarf around his neck. She was painfully attracted to him, the pull intensified by the very definite goodbye about to occur.

"Elizabeth?"

He was watching her as well, and offered a hand to help her up. His expression was unreadable. She gathered her purse and carry-on bag, then tentatively slipped her hand into his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. He didn't let go, and she certainly wasn't about to take her own hand away. Ridiculous hope flickered in her heart for a brief instant, but then she read the barely-concealed anguish behind his eyes.

"I won't see you again," she whispered, wishing desperately that her voice was stronger. It wasn't a question. She knew.

"Look after yourself," he returned, and tried to smile for her. The effort fell short, as the emotion didn't reach his eyes. He gave her hand a quick squeeze, then broke from her and joined the line of passengers heading for the exit.

God, no. She automatically took a step after him, willing him to look back, but he shoved his way roughly to the front of the queue and disappeared. She hadn't told him. Well, to be fair, he hadn't given her time to say anything at all. But Will had taken a chance and confirmed that he still loved her, and she at least wanted him to know that she'd never stopped loving him. Her silence had hurt him, she knew. _Why_ did she always manage to hurt the single person who mattered?

Quickly, she pushed her way into the aisle and toward the exit. She earned a number of disapproving glares and scowls, as it was business class she was fighting against, but succeeded in gaining the corridor beyond the airplane in record time. No Will.

How far could he have gotten? Again she started pushing, this time staying close to the wall until she emerged into the boarding area. Heart hammering, she raked her eyes over the people moving deeper into the airport, passengers coming from the opposite direction, passengers waiting impatiently in the uncomfortable plastic chairs nearby. Still no sign of him.

Luggage claim, then. She did a quick scan for Richard, not really expecting to find him, and not the least bit surprised when she didn't. She didn't care. Richard would only stop her from reaching Will.

She took a hurried step forward, but immediately skidded to a stop. Where the hell was luggage claim? No time to ask, really. Going on instinct, drawing up hazy memories of her last experience in Heathrow, she set off at a brisk walk that was more of a run. A sprint, actually.

And what would happen if she couldn't catch him? Well, she'd spend the rest of eternity wracked with guilt and regret. And Will…Will would believe she'd never cared for him at all, and only thought of him as a diversion. He wouldn't know how much she missed hearing him whisper her name, or how she missed the little trail of kisses he used to leave across her shoulders, or the way her mind still tricked her into believing it was _him_ rather than Richard beside her when she was in that hazy state between sleep and wakefulness. She had to find him.

Luggage claim proved unsuccessful. She pushed her way forward to the conveyors, panting for breath and sweeping her gaze wildly over the area. He wasn't there. There wasn't anyone even remotely resembling him. Momentarily defeated, she hauled her suitcase down and sat atop it.

Perhaps she'd managed to beat him. It was possible that he'd made a detour for coffee, or that he was making a phone call, or searching for his car. Surely he had a car and driver waiting outside. She could catch him that way.

First, however, she decided to give him a few moments to make an appearance. She kept her attention divided between the luggage conveyor and the crowd, hoping for a sight of either him or his suitcase. After ten minutes of watching, she'd found neither.

It would be ridiculous to wander the airport searching for him. Her last hope was to find him outside at his car. Dragging her suitcase, she began to fight the crowds again. She was painfully aware of time passing.

Thirty seconds. Of course he would be there.

Forty-five seconds. He was watching the driver toss his bags into the boot.

Two minutes. He was comfortable and warm, lounging back against soft black leather.

Four minutes. Bloody hell, the damned tourists needed to go back to their own countries.

Swearing under her breath, at last she succeeded in forcing her way through the swinging glass doors. She was immediately chilled, icy wind cutting through her sweater and coat. Her heels slid a bit in the snow, but she gripped the handle of her suitcase hard for balance and turned desperate eyes to the lineup of waiting cars.

Three cabs. Unlikely. A nondescript black…something. No. Pink limousine. Definitely not. Two identical white limousines further down. Perhaps, but two women were climbing into one and the other was dropping a group of Asian businessmen. More cabs. Damn.

William Turner had officially disappeared from her life. She thought of his mobile number, which she'd had programmed into her own phone for three years, but that was ridiculous. Maybe later. At the moment all she wanted was the warmth of Richard's car and a bit of time to wallow in self-pity.

But Richard's car didn't appear to be waiting. She couldn't see his driver, and he always kept the same driver. He'd brought the man from L.A., and she would recognize him. Richards didn't do limousines. He liked the nondescript black somethings, but the one sitting at the curb wasn't _his_ nondescript black something. The hood ornament on the front was always his family crest. Arrogant bastard.

Shit. She had exactly three dollars and forty-seven cents in American money. No pounds. She had credit cards, but cabs didn't take bloody credit cards. More furious than worried, she plunged her hand into her purse for her mobile. Fingers slightly numb from the cold, still half scanning the lineup of cars, she jabbed Richard's number and sent the call through.

It rang, repeatedly. And rang again. The call went to voicemail.

"Car, you prick." That got the point across very nicely, in her opinion. "Car for your fiancé."

"Elizabeth?"

Hell! She jumped as his hand fell to rest on her shoulder, dropping her mobile into the snow in a superlative display of grace. She was hardly concerned, because the moment she turned she met his eyes. Curious and inquiring, with a hint of laughter behind them. He looked as though _he _hadn't just spent the past twenty minutes in a mad rush around Heathrow searching for his only real love.

"Will. What are you doing here?"

Brilliant. What the bloody hell was he _supposed_ to be doing?

"Freezing my arse off, standing on the pavement in the snow. You?"

Something articulate, hopefully.

"Working out how I'm going to negotiate my way to Mayfair."

Articulate enough, and true. Will pressed his cup of coffee into her hands and bent to retrieve her mobile from the snow.

"I'm going to Mayfair," he shrugged, sliding the phone into her coat pocket. God, that smug little charming smirk should be illegal. "Come with me. Unless you'd rather lose your arse to frostbite waiting on your prick fiancé, of course."

"Tosser. Where've you been?" Had she really just said that? As if they were back in New York, killing an afternoon with movies and bad Chinese takeaway? Shit. And what had happened to him? This definitely wasn't the Will who had left her on the airplane. This was the real Will, the one she remembered before the blazers and ties and business meetings. The insult didn't affect him at all.

"Starbucks. That's still hot, if you want it."

Caffeine was responsible for his mood shift, then. She kept her fingers curled around the coffee cup, more eager for the warmth it was giving her hands than the way the coffee would probably burn her tongue if she drank any. Will always had it too hot.

"So, to where in Mayfair am I taking you?"

Somewhere that sold firearms, preferably. Richard had a hell of a lot of explaining to do, and he'd better be at the flat when she got there. The flight had been exactly on schedule. She'd told him precisely when she would be in London. She'd done the bloody time conversion for him.

"Berkeley Square," she told Will, allowing him to take her suitcase without protest. His lips pulled down in a brief frown, but the expression only lasted an instant. He began dragging both their suitcases toward the nearest cab, and she followed. "I've got the number in my bag."

He didn't catch the last bit. He was already negotiating with the cabbie, and she saw him thrust a fifty-pound note through the front window as if it was a five-pound note and of no real concern. So apparently he didn't have a car and driver waiting. And apparently he'd lost all concept of the value of money.

She opened the door of the car and slid into the back, watching Will through the back windscreen as he pulled open the boot and tossed both suitcases in. For a moment she'd been afraid that he was sending her off alone. He hadn't said anything since she'd singled out Berkeley Square.

Perhaps he hadn't been going to Mayfair at all. The cab fare would certainly take most, if not all, of the fifty-pound note. What if his own flat was on the opposite side of the Thames? Brilliant, making him haul her over to West End London. He'd abandon the cab in Berkeley Square and take the Tube instead and she'd feel terrible for putting him out. He'd freeze to death in this weather, or be jumped on the Tube, or be jumped and left to freeze to death.

"You should probably give him the number," Will suggested, sliding in beside her and slamming the door. He lifted his coffee from her grasp and took a long sip, and she used the opportunity to search for the envelope Richard had given her. The key to the flat was inside, the house number printed on the outside, and she slid the key out before passing the empty envelope up to the driver. The cab began to move slowly into the flow of traffic.

Right. Will wasn't likely to freeze to death, even if he walked across town, and he was more than capable of defending himself against any would-be attackers. The Tube wasn't dangerous before midnight, anyway. She should still ask. He wouldn't lie if she asked outright.

"Will?"

He lifted an eyebrow.

"Elizabeth?"

She rummaged through her purse for her key ring, and once she had it she went to work securing the new flat key on the metal hoop. Mostly so she could drop her eyes and not watch Will's reaction to her question. He wouldn't like her asking.

"Where are you _really_ going after Berkeley Square?"

From the corner of her eye she saw him lick his lips, a nervous habit. He was watching her, his gaze absolutely penetrating, and she got the impression that he was debating heavily about something.

"Nowhere."

He was absolutely maddening. To be fair, she didn't have any right to ask. Perhaps the question had been a little condescending. Or ridiculously patronizing. She felt sure that she owed him an apology.

The words wouldn't come. She didn't know how to apologize without sounding even more condescending than before. Will was confusing her. Telling her that he loved her, leaving her on the airplane with hardly a goodbye, showing up again as if nothing had happened, refusing to tell her where in London he intended to live.

She turned and rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the rows of buildings pass by. Why did it even matter? She was engaged to Richard, to be married. She shouldn't have ever met up with Will again. He only complicated things. She hadn't had much of a choice in the matter, of course. Well…she could have switched rows on the first flight and never even been in his company.

She could feel Will's eyes on her again, but didn't turn. She _wanted_ to be in his company. Indefinitely. She was suddenly grateful for the snow shower that was quickly degenerating into a blizzard, and grateful for the traffic snarl as they drew deeper into London. Sitting two feet from him in a chilly cab was enough, never mind that he was probably cross with her for posing such a blunt question, and that she couldn't quite drag her eyes back to him.

"You should go up on the Eye tonight."

The sound of his voice, and his conversational tone, caught her off guard. She turned back to face him.

"The what?"

"Millennium Wheel?" He was watching her as if she were incredibly obtuse. "That big round thing across the water from Parliament."

"That's for tourists, Will." She rolled her eyes dismissively. He had always been a little spontaneous in New York, going in for the Statue of Liberty and the Broadway shows and Times Square and carriage rides through Central Park. But they had--sort of--been tourist in New York. London was home.

"I knew you hadn't been up," he returned smugly. "Give it a go tonight, at sunset. Waste thirty minutes of your life playing tourist."

Oh, fine. She'd give him his entertainment.

"Why?"

"For the view, of course. The snow, and the lights, and the traffic, and the barges on the Thames. It's pretty. If Richard doesn't make you go, I'll have to."

_What_? Was he suggesting what she _though_ he was suggesting? Her eyes had been drifting toward the windscreen to watch the snow, but almost instantly she found herself staring at him. It was completely out of character for him.

"Sorry," he amended quickly. "That wasn't an…invitation. I don't think. Hell."

Now it was his turn to stare out the window. He needed sleep, she knew. He always said stupid, idiotic things when he was exhausted. She had to forgive him, just this once, for putting ideas into her head and giving her a moment's hope. A secret tryst at the Millennium Wheel wouldn't have been so terrible, really.

The silence became oppressive once the cab moved into Mayfair, and at last she took pity on him and slid across the seat to close the distance between them. She was aware that they had fewer than five minutes together now, and she wasn't sure if that was long enough. It would take her ten, at least, to find her voice and form the words.

"I never stopped loving you, Will."

Hesitantly, she slid her arm under his and took his hand, lacing their fingers. She was almost afraid of his reaction, expecting him to pull away or recant his own similar confession. She felt vaguely sick at the thought, and fought back the impulse to break contact as quickly as she had initiated it. Had it tormented Will so much on the airplane to speak the words?

At last, much to her relief, he gave her hand a squeeze and exhaled softly, breath fogging the glass. He didn't take his eyes away from the window.

"I know."

The cab turned into Berkeley Square, the center park on the left and the lineup of pristine four-story homes on the right. Richards flat was on the opposite side of the park, although it was too great a distance for her to read the numbers and pick which building it was.

"Will?"

She didn't even know what else she meant to say. She only wanted him to look at her, so she could be certain he understood. He didn't show any sign of having heard her. His attention was fixed on the road ahead, and traffic suddenly ground to a stop. She leaned forward to see out the windscreen as their cab driver blared the horn at the car in front. Two moving vans were blocking the right-hand lane, leaving very little space for other cars to squeeze through.

"Will," she repeated, more insistently, and this time she snatched away the coffee from his free hand. That got his attention, and he promptly tore his eyes away from the scene outside to look at her. She suddenly wished he hadn't. His eyes gave everything away. Sadness, and vulnerability. And she was the cause.

"Will, I'm…."

Sorry seemed terribly inadequate. Nothing she could say would make up for walking out on him, or turning down his proposal, or spending the last eighteen hours unintentionally playing games with him. Sorry wouldn't dissolve her engagement to Richard, or put her in a position to begin atonement.

"I know," he repeated. "I know you, Elizabeth. There's nothing to apologize for."

This time he did pull his hand away, but the contact was only broken long enough for him to drape his arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him and closed her eyes as the cab circled to the other side of the Square. Richard's flat was close, but she didn't want to watch the time left with Will pass by the frosty cab windows. She felt as if she were about to be hung in the gallows rather than reunited with her fiancé.

"Elizabeth?"

Icy air flooded the cab, and she heard the door whine in protest as Will forced it open. She hadn't even felt the car stop. She did, however, notice the absence of Will's warmth by her side as he slid out.

She was standing on the pavement an instant later, ankle-deep in snow. The immediate fear was that Will was leaving her again, just as he had slipped away into the crowd leaving the airplane. Much to her relief, he was only hauling their suitcases from the boot.

Her stomach clenched painfully. _Both_ of their suitcases. He intended to give up the cab, just as she'd suspected before.

"This is your idea of a flat?" Will asked, sounding both bemused and curious as he stared up at the building before them. Elizabeth turned to examine it as well, trying and failing to evade her guilt. The building looked almost identical to all of the others on the Square--four levels, steep front steps, tall windows.

"We've only got the top two levels," she muttered at last, because she could feel Will's eyes on her now rather than the building. "Richard had the two flats converted into a two-story suite."

"Walk-up or lift?"

Will sounded genuinely interested. Perhaps a little too interested.

"Walk-up," she confirmed, and forced her eyes to focus on him rather than the blank windows above. "Richard wasn't happy, but it's Berkeley Square and it was a miracle we found a listing at all."

"Popular neighborhood," Will agreed, and there was something wry and ironic about the smirk that came to his lips. "Well then, Elizabeth. If you're sure you can handle the stairs, I'll let you get on with it. Give Richard my congratulations on the engagement."

He leaned in and kissed her cheek, his hot lips making her skin burn. There was something distinctly smug about that kiss. She stopped breathing for a moment. When at last her heart started up again, she turned her head in a not-so-subtle attempt to steal a kiss of her own.

He was gone. His warmth lingered, and his scent, but he was already across the street and on the opposite pavement, starting down the snowy path into the middle park. His name was on her tongue, but then rational thought caught up with her.

Richard would hear. That would certainly get her into trouble, assuming she wasn't in trouble already and Richard had failed to notice another man kissing his fiancé. She was suddenly very cold. Intolerably cold, at the thought of this possibly being their goodbye. She glanced back at her building; the windows were closed, curtains were over the glass, the street was loud…. It was worth it.

"Will Turner!"

He paused immediately and looked back, although he didn't whip around at the sound of his name as she had suspected he would. He turned at a leisurely pace, almost as if he had been expecting her to call. An amused grin pulled up the corner of his lips.

She wanted to go to him, or have him fight his way back across traffic to reach her. She settled for posing a rather desperate question, although she was careful to measure her tone so it didn't come out that way. She only sounded vaguely curious.

"Will I see you again?"

"Far more than Richard will like!" he shouted back. There was laughter behind the words. If the question had caught him off guard, he didn't let on. He flashed her a smile, lifted a hand in farewell, then turned his back on her and continued on through the park.

She couldn't have stopped him again even if she'd wanted to. He'd temporarily shocked her into silence. Had he meant that they were going to have an affair? Should she expect a call, or an invitation? Or should she go to the Millennium Wheel at sunset, as he had suggested before? Would he be waiting there for her? She couldn't recall him ever being so cryptic before. It was a side of him she wasn't sure she was fond of.

Her curiosity kept her standing out on the pavement in the snow, watching Will's progress through the park. There were no leaves on the trees, and the two intersecting paths were deserted, so she was free to spy on him with an unobstructed view. He cut straight across the park and dodged through traffic until he was walking on the pavement on the opposite side of the Square.

She couldn't remember the nearest Tube station, but felt certain that he should have turned left instead of right…. The two moving vans seemed to catch his attention, and she suddenly recalled him watching the scene intently when the cab had come around that side of the Square. She moved as close to the street as she dared for a better view and kept her eyes trained on him.

He spoke to the movers, looked into the back of one of the vans, pointed up at the building behind him and indicated a window. Then, much to her surprise, he tossed his suitcase into the back of the van and started up the front steps of the building as if he owned it. He was met at the doorway by a German Shepherd dog, and as she watched it launched itself at him. He caught the animal in his arms and allowed it to lick his cheek, then the pair of them disappeared into the house.

Nothing made sense for a long moment. Will Turner--the Will she had known--didn't belong on Berkeley Square. He belonged in a flat, maybe a loft, with a picturesque view of the city and tastefully yet sparsely furnished rooms and jazz music playing in the background and the scent of garlic and oregano coming from the kitchen. Her Will would never fit with a house like the one across the park.

That house probably came with staff, at least a cleaning lady and someone to cook. That wasn't Will. Will was brilliant in the kitchen, and he was a bit of an artist. He did photography, and he kept canvas and paint although he wasn't very talented at drawing. He played guitar and banged out Mozart and Debussy and the Mission: Impossible theme on a battered upright. He wrote, on occasion, when inspiration struck--both music and stories.

People like Will simply did not belong in Berkeley Square. But then this Will wasn't the one she had left in New York three years ago. Now he had video conferences and blazers and ties. He could make first-class plane tickets appear from nowhere and charm Spanish stewardesses. He drank rum when he used to be fond of tequila or red wine.

And he had lied to her. Not outright, but through omission. He hadn't even mentioned Berkeley Square when she'd asked where he intended to live, and the fact that they would be within walking distance of each other again certainly merited mentioning. Perhaps he hadn't intended to see her again?

She turned her attention to the men working from the back of the moving vans. They carried in a mahogany desk, then a number of cardboard boxes. A black leather sofa. Matching leather armchairs. A grand piano, which almost refused to fit through the front entrance.

She wanted to go across and demand answers from him. It made her a bit angry, to think that he knew exactly how close they were going to be yet he didn't feel the need to talk about it. She wanted to know how this was going to work.

She couldn't find the courage to drag herself and her suitcase through the snow to the opposite side of the Square. When it became clear that Will wasn't coming back outside, she reluctantly turned to look up at the building behind her.

The windows were dark, and she suddenly remembered what Richard had told her over the phone the day before. He wasn't going to be at the flat at all until the afternoon. It was hardly past eleven. She could go over and see Will again, if she hurried….

She opened the door of her building and stepped into the small entrance hall instead. Will could have told her. He could have mentioned Berkeley Square at any point during the flights, or admitted the coincidence in the cab. If he thought she was going to simply wait for him to come back, perhaps she'd rather not see him at all. Had he seriously been suggesting an affair? Will _had_ changed, in the three years they'd been apart.

There was another door immediately to her right, leading to the stairwell. She lifted her suitcase with both hands and started up the two flights of stairs. Once at the top she emerged on a small landing with a polished mahogany door. The door to her new apartment with Richard.

She dropped the suitcase heavily and jammed her key into the lock. The door opened silently, and she reluctantly stepped inside.

The hallway was well lit, with gleaming wood floors and a high ceiling. And there, on the small table near the door, were two dozen red roses in a crystal vase. Beside the roses, a bottle of champagne. She felt a smile pull at her lips despite the fact that she was angry with Richard for neglecting to send a car to Heathrow. Richard had his moments of thoughtfulness, when he tried.

Elizabeth dragged her suitcase inside and dropped her purse and carry-on bag atop it, nudging the door closed with the toe of her boot. She pulled the little card from amid the rose blossoms. It wasn't really a card at all, but a small heart cut from pink cardstock paper. The paper had come from her collection of scrapbook supplies, and the heart was shaped so perfectly that she knew he had used one of her cutting tools to make it.

_I love you, Lizzie. Welcome home._

Simple, but the fact that Richard had taken the time to print the words in his slanted, tight script rather than printing them from the computer made her love him a little more. That didn't mean he was forgiven for the car incident.

She settled the card back between the roses and started down the hallway. A quick tour of the flat, then a shower and a nap. Richard had also mentioned some sort of dinner or business affair she was required to attend tonight. She wasn't looking forward to it.

The first room she reached was on the left, and turned out to be Richard's office. She flicked the lights on, but there wasn't anything to see. It was identical to the way his office in L.A. had been arranged. Desk, computer, a wooden cabinet disguising file drawers. Incredibly boring.

On the right she found the kitchen, which opened into a dining room. The bedroom and two walk-in closets were upstairs, she knew, along with the slightly small bathroom. He had e-mailed her pictures after the interior designer was done designing. New furniture, fresh paint on the walls, hardwood floors through all of the rooms.

She left the dining room to see the living room, the largest space on the downstairs level. It was the most comfortable of all of the rooms she'd been in so far, probably because it was the only space that held familiar furniture from the L.A. apartment. There were fake logs in the fireplace and a lineup of picture frames on the mantle, all snapshots of her and Richard on various vacations and at social functions.

Oddly, the plasma screen television mounted on the wall was blaring BBC News. Richard never left the television going like that, unless he was close enough to hear it. Perhaps he was upstairs after all?

She located the television controls on the coffee table, alongside Richard's mobile. The phone displayed one new voicemail and a missed call, her number and the time. She muted the sound on the television and went back into the hallway.

"Richard?"

A door closed, the sound coming from somewhere upstairs. She mounted the staircase and called again.

"Richard, it's Elizabeth!"

"Genevieve, darling!"

A door closed behind her this time and she whirled around, halfway up the stairs. Richard had his back to her, locking the front door, a plastic grocery bag in his free hand. So Genevieve, their designer, was upstairs? That explained the door slamming before.

"You didn't take your mobile," she accused to draw his attention. She had to remember to be angry with him for the Heathrow incident. It was an effort, but she managed. For a moment, anyway.

Richard turned at the sound of her voice, dumping his keys and shopping bag on the hall table beside the roses. He smiled down the hallway at her, and she entirely forgot to be cross with him. He was more gorgeous than she remembered, and could almost put Will to shame.

His blonde hair was a shade darker than last time she'd seen him. It was tousled and messy, purposefully done with hair gel. His eyes were still piercing, steel gray but warm. Stubble shadowed his chin and cheeks, and the top two buttons of his shirt were open. That was where he could never compete with Will. His chest would never be toned enough.

"Did you find your roses?" he asked, brushing off her accusation. "I wasn't expecting you back so soon. You told me noon."

"I told you ten," she shot back, trying and failing to sound harsh and unforgiving. The words came out hardly more than a pout. He was charming her with his eyes, moving at a leisurely pace down the hallway toward the staircase.

"I'm sorry."

It was a simple apology, but his voice was velvety soft and it was enough. He had been in a mood yesterday over the phone, but today he was perfect. Today he was her fiancé again.

"You'll have to prove it," she told him, retreating back down the stairs. The physical attraction had always been stronger than their emotional bond. He knew what she wanted.

"Come here, then."

She jumped the last three steps and he caught her in his arms, spinning her once before lowering her to the floor and crushing his lips against hers. She was a bit shorter, even in heels, and before she had time to return the kiss he had her hitched up again with his hands squeezing her arse. She wrapped her legs around his hips, slipping her tongue into his mouth. He backed her up against the wall for leverage.

His side of the kiss was hard and urgent, and although it would have been nice to slow down and actually focus on his taste and his scent and run her fingers through his hair and be caressed in return, she kissed back with equal enthusiasm. She knew where this was going from the moment their lips met.

His left hand slipped under her sweater and jacket, searching for her bra clasp. She kept one arm hooked around his neck and went to work at the buttons of his shirt. They would be upstairs in bed in less than five minutes, at this rate. Three weeks was far too long. Why had she been angry with him, again?

The hand that had been supporting her arse slipped between her legs from behind for a moment, teasing through the fabric of her jeans. They were both breathing heavily by this point, but Richard's move forced her to be the one to break the kiss and suck in air. Right. She had forgotten they played that game.

He bit her lip as she pulled away, grazing with his teeth and whispering her name on a moan. She drew another sharp breath and meant to continue the kiss, but Richard had grown impatient. He attached his lips to the sensitive spot behind her ear instead. She leaned her head back against the wall and looked down the hallway to give him better access, allowing her eyes to slip closed when he nipped her earlobe.

She had forgotten about his buttons, her fingers now twisted in his hair. He had given up on the clasp of her bra as well. He slipped his thumb under one of the cups instead and moved his kisses down her neck, along her jaw, until finally catching her lips again.

She heard what sounded like footsteps on the stairs, but could have been imagining it. She was quickly losing herself in him. His index finger stroked along the crotch seam of her jeans and he bit her lip again, forcing her to break the kiss a second time with a sharp little gasp. God, he was only teasing her now. He was never this attentive straight off.

Footsteps on the stairs again. Richard's hand pressed more insistently between her legs, squeezing hard. That had been a response to the noise on the stairs. He tried to catch her lips again, but she turned her head away and opened her eyes. She saw more of Genevieve the interior designer than she ever wanted to.

"Elizabeth," Richard growled, this time forcing his lips over hers. He licked the roof of her mouth, and she bit his tongue hard enough to make him pull back and swear. Genevieve stood frozen on the bottom stair, entirely naked save for one of Richard's button-down shirts draped around her shoulders.

Richard had been _distracting_ her. He'd spent God knew how long upstairs in bed with their designer, found_ her _unexpectedly in the apartment after what was probably a condom run, and tried to distract her until Genevieve could sneak downstairs. She knew how it would work. Genevieve would come down and hide in the dining room, Richard would carry her upstairs to the bedroom, and that would leave Genevieve free to slip out the front door without the chance of being noticed. It would have worked, if the girl didn't thunder down the stairs so loudly.

"Richard Aaron Lacey, put me _down_." Her voice wavered, damn it! She couldn't be upset. The damage would be irreparable if he saw her cry over this. She unhitched her legs from around his hips and he slowly let her go.

"Elizabeth, sweetheart--"

"Bastard!" Yes, that worked. At least she managed to sound appropriately furious, despite the tears burning her throat. "Arrogant, selfish bastard! You knew what you were doing the entire time!"

"Elizabeth, no," he soothed, his voice a soft purr. He was giving her the _look_, trying to charm her with his eyes. She flung her hand forward to slap him, but he caught her wrist. Fine.

"Are you screwing him?" she shot at Genevieve, meeting the other woman's eyes without hesitation. The designer had always been annoyingly blunt. She wouldn't lie for Richard.

"Yes, Elizabeth."

There. He could have her, then.

She wrenched her arm from Richard's grasp and almost ran down the hallway, snatching up her purse and pausing only long enough to slip the engagement ring from her finger. She flung it back down the hallway, and it skittered across the wood floor and disappeared into the sitting room. As an afterthought, she looked into the grocery bag on the hall table.

Chocolate sauce. Interesting, but she didn't really want to know.

"Elizabeth, wait. She was a mistake--"

"You were a mistake, Richard," she shouted back, her voice breaking. He was striding down the hall to catch her. "All of it was a mistake. Agreeing to marry you, moving back to London, leaving him in New York--"

"Leaving _who_ in New York?" Richard demanded, but she didn't care. She didn't owe him an explanation. He made a grab for her, but she slipped into the stairwell and began taking the steps two at a time. He didn't come after her. She heard the door shut before she was halfway down.

God, what now? _What now_? Where did she go? She didn't have any contacts in London, she didn't have money for the Tube or a cab. She had credit cards, that was it.

She emerged into the snow outside, her breath coming in harsh gasps and her head spinning. Tears threatened, but she only allowed herself one broken sob before forcing the rest down. Then she saw them, on the opposite side of the Square. Moving vans.

She plunged into the street at a run, her heels slipping in the snow. Horns blared, but somehow she reached the park safely without being flattened by traffic. She followed his footprints through the snow to the opposite side, and dashed across the street again.

What would she say to him? He'd kick her out. She wouldn't even get inside. The movers would stop her. She looked back toward Richard's flat, but he wasn't pursuing her. It didn't matter. She'd rather have Will.

Still running, she pushed her way past the men carrying boxes and vaulted Will's front steps. She ignored the movers shouting at her to stop, but almost immediately she was forced to anyway. She didn't know how to find him. The foyer she found herself in was huge, with a crystal chandelier overhead and a staircase against the wall to the right. She saw a sprawling room beyond the foyer that could be either a dining room or library, or perhaps an office. The furniture was unorganized and she couldn't tell.

Then she heard it, and had her direction. She mounted the staircase, following the noise of his music. She couldn't recognize it, or even hear it that clearly, but it had a beat and a melody and it was sure to lead her to him. She reached the second-floor landing, but the sound was still coming from above her so she continued on.

A low, feral growl made her pause before she reached the next landing. Panting for breath, she slowly looked back over her shoulder. Of course. The German Shepherd.

For a moment she feared it would attack. Its lips were curled back in a snarl, its ears were back, and it was crouched low as if to pounce. She hazarded another step up, and it stalked her with a low warning bark. She couldn't get breath to call for Will, or she would have been screaming for him already.

The dog barked again, louder this time.

"_Oi_! Leave the movers alone!"

_Will_. Thank God. His order did it, and the dog immediately rocketed past her up the stairs and disappeared on the landing, intruder forgotten. She followed almost as quickly, and was in time to see a brown blur disappear into the nearest room. It was where the music was coming from. Oasis, she realized at last.

Suddenly nervous, she went at a sedate walk toward his room. How was she supposed to explain this? He wouldn't want her here. He couldn't still love her, despite what he had insisted on the airplane.

She moved to stand in the doorway, and there he was. Hair damp, a towel around his shoulders, wearing nothing but a pair of black silk boxer shorts. He had one leg in a pair of gray lounge pants, but paused in the act of dressing once he caught movement from the corner of his eye. He snapped his eyes up, surprise and confusion written across his features. The dog started snarling again, and she took a step back.

"Sod off," he shot at the dog, and it immediately went quiet and sat sedately by his feet. Will didn't seem so shocked anymore.

"Come here," he muttered, his voice soft as he continued to pull on his pants. He tied the drawstring and tugged a red Bob Marley t-shirt on over his head. He reached out a hand and sat on the corner of what she assumed was his bed, beckoning her forward.

The bed was little more than three mattresses stacked one on top of the other. The actual bed was in pieces on the other side of his massive room. Half of the space on the top mattress was taken up with drawers, full of neatly folded clothes, but the larger piece of furniture the drawers fit into seemed to be missing.

He was waiting patiently, watching her with a mixture of concern and slight confusion. Something inside her broke. A moment later she was sitting beside him on the bed, half in his lap. His arms were tight around her, an unnatural warmth emanating from him. Probably still hot from his shower. Water dripped from his hair against her neck as he held her. He didn't ask questions or shift their position for a long while, and she held him just as tightly.

"Did he frighten you? He only bites if I tell him to," Will muttered, his cheek against her hair and his voice soft in her ear. They both knew that wasn't the reason she was clinging to him, but she decided to play along to delay her breakdown.

"What's his name?"

"Riot," Will answered quietly. An odd name for a dog, but a very Will thing to do, giving it a name like that. Riot barked again at the sound of his name, but when Will failed to respond she heard claws clicking against the floor as the animal wandered out. Will sighed. "What's _her_ name?"

"Genevieve," she replied in a strangled whisper. She knew exactly who he had meant, and didn't care how he knew. There was no point trying to avoid the question. Will would make it better. But first he would make her face it.

"I'm so sorry, darling."

He was sincere, and it made her feel worse. There it was. She had loved Richard. Some part of her had, although she hadn't felt as strongly about him as she still did about Will. She wouldn't have been engaged to him if she hadn't loved him. She had trusted him, for some inexplicable reason. She had _wanted _to trust him. His betrayal hurt more deeply than she had ever expected it to.

And it was that realization that made her feel immeasurably guilty. If Richard could hurt her this badly, when their relationship had been a satire compared to what she and Will once had, she could only imagine how terribly she had wounded Will three years ago. She didn't deserve him now, after everything.

She tried to pull away, intending to leave. She suddenly felt very stupid for running to him. But he wouldn't let her go. He loosened his grip, but kept his arms around her.

"Stay, Elizabeth." It was a suggestion rather than a command. She relented after another short instant of indecision, his comfort too much to give up. "Where were you going?"

Perhaps not so comfortable anymore, if he intended to pry and ask unnecessary questions. She didn't want to admit that she had no idea what her next move was. How exactly did one go about retrieving their things from an apartment they never intended to return to? And where was she supposed to stay once said possessions were retrieved?

"A hotel." She answered the moment the idea came to her. A hotel could work, until she could find a flat of her own. Will stroked her hair and brushed away the single betraying tear making a track down her cheek.

"I'll take care of it," he assured her, and leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead. She knew she should protest, but couldn't quite find the motivation. Let him take care of her, if it made him happy. She was ready to be taken care of. The constant power-struggle with Richard had exhausted her. Their relationship had been poison.

"I want you to go have a shower, Elizabeth." Will gently tilted her chin up and forced her to meet his gaze. "Take as long as you need. I'll have food waiting in the kitchen when you're done."

Another suggestion. He was still giving her the option of walking away, but she didn't want to take it. Slowly, she nodded her assent and mouthed a 'thank you,' although she couldn't find her voice to communicate a more appropriate show of gratitude. The tears were choking her.

Will gave her a sad smile and reluctantly stepped from the room, closing the door behind him. She knew what he had meant by telling her to take as long as she needed. She wouldn't allow him to see her break down completely, and he was giving her the opportunity for privacy. And he would be downstairs to fix everything when she was through.

She would feel better after a shower, whether she had a good cry over Richard in the process or not. Feeling more like an intruder than a guest, she reluctantly stood from the bed and crossed Will's bedroom, stepping into the equally massive bathroom and pausing in the doorway.

There was a marble-tiled shower in the corner with sliding frosted glass doors, a long counter already crowded with his electric razor and toothbrush and hair products, and a Jacuzzi tub against the south wall. That was tempting, but it might also be imposing on Will's hospitality a bit. She resisted, with much difficulty, and left her clothes in an untidy heap on the floor to step into the shower.

She turned the water on, prepared for an icy blast as she waited for it to heat, but the shower was still warm from Will's turn. Unpleasantly hot, actually, but she didn't bother to adjust it. Nor did she adjust the massaging showerhead. It pounded the tension from her shoulders and back, and temporarily pushed the situation with Richard to the back of her mind. For the first time since leaving Seattle, she felt relaxed.

A wire-mesh basket was mounted to the tile under the showerhead, holding an assortment of shampoo and soap and body wash. She selected a black bottle printed with a red logo. Her French was good enough to decipher that she should use the contents of the bottle on her hair, but it was beyond her comprehension why Will felt the need to use foreign hair products.

She opened the bottle and was immediately assaulted by his scent. Cinnamon and spices, a masculine smell. Very Will. Tears began to sting her eyes again, and this time she didn't bother to keep them at bay. She did a thorough job of washing her hair, still trying to delay the inevitable, but eventually the task was done and she had no choice but to give in.

She dropped to the floor, her back in a corner and out of reach of the pounding water. She drew her knees up to her chest and rested her forehead on her knees. The sobs were harsh and rough, desperate. She cried for the situation with Richard, and how stupid she'd been to love him or trust him or agree to marry him. She cried for the stack of wedding magazines hidden somewhere among the books she'd packed and sent to London three weeks ago.

Then Will came to mind, and although she didn't want to remember she still saw in her mind's eye every single kindness he'd showed her since they'd met up again on the airplane. The new sobs that tore from her throat were the worst, because she knew he'd never be able to make himself love her again. What she'd done to him was unforgivable.

And before, when she had thought he was suggesting an affair. How could she think that of him? She could see now that he had only meant they would be forced together more than would be entirely comfortable, as they lived in the same neighborhood.

She lost track of time, but slowly her sobs faded and the tears were spent. She felt absolutely exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but somehow she also felt better than she had in a long while.

The water was still scalding hot, pounding the tiled wall. It was safe to assume that no sound had carried downstairs, and she was grateful for Will's cleverness in suggesting a shower. The opportunity to be alone had been nice, but she was beginning to miss his company. Now all she wanted was the comfort of his arms around her, if only until he sent her off to her hotel. It would have to be enough.

She struggled to her feet a little unsteadily, still trying to catch her breath from crying. A new goal--reaching Will--made her impatient to finish the shower routine. She snatched another bottle and scanned the label, then popped the lid open. Again, Will's scent assaulted her. His body wash matched the shampoo. If she hadn't just seen him disappear downstairs in frayed lounge pants and a Bob Marley t-shirt, she'd accuse him of being metrosexual.

She washed quickly and rinsed her hair one last time, then shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. Dripping on the cold tile floor, she crossed the bathroom and began searching for towels. What she found were better suited for lying on the beach than using after a shower.

The towels were thick and fluffy, absolutely huge, and warm. She wrapped one around her hair and another around her chest, beginning to feel a bit more at home and less like an intruder.

She moved forward and leaned against the marble countertop, wiping fog from the mirror that ran the length of the counter. She didn't look terrible, given the circumstances. Her eyes were still a little red from crying, but that was it. Barely noticeable.

Will wouldn't mind, so for the sake of hygiene she snatched his electric toothbrush and cleaned her teeth as well. The minty toothpaste he used burned her tongue and throat, too reminiscent of mouthwash for her liking. She rinsed quickly and padded back to his bedroom, gathering her bra and underwear as she went but leaving her jeans and sweater and boots in a pile on the floor.

It was all very masochistic, and she wasn't entirely sure why she did it, but she moved to the bed and selected a pair of flannel pajama pants and his NYU hoodie from the lineup of drawers. Oh yes, wearing his clothes was certain to make leaving easier. She got dressed anyway.

The shirt was far too big, but she pushed the sleeves up to free her hands and tied the drawstring of the pants as tightly as possible. They still sat several inches lower on her hips than was entirely decent, and she would have preferred a pair of his boxers, but that was pushing things too far. And it was incredibly cold downstairs, with the front door standing open for the movers.

Not wanting to go down looking entirely hopeless, she rummaged through her purse until she found the small amount of makeup she kept on hand. She smeared powder on from her compact and brushed a bit of mascara on her lashes, then put on pink shimmering lip gloss. No eye color or cheek color, but she looked presentable enough given the circumstances. She found the little emergency bottle of Chanel she kept for just such an occasion, and sprayed it lightly at her throat. Better than explaining to Will why she smelled like his deodorant. One thing he probably_ wouldn't_ appreciate her borrowing.

She retrieved a clip from her purse and succeeded in pinning her damp hair back, just as what she assumed to be the doorbell rang. It was a deep gong-like sound, and reverberated up the staircase loudly enough to reach her two floors up. The movers were gone then, if the door was closed. Exactly how long had she been hiding in the shower?

She opened the door of Will's room and heard someone do the same downstairs.

"Turner."

That was Richard's voice. He didn't inspire any more tears, but it brought an uncomfortable anxiety to her chest. She'd rather not speak with him again, if it could be helped. Not today, at least. Quickly, she stepped into the hall and leaned over the banister, looking down on the foyer.

"Richard."

They were absolutely snarling at each other. Will stood blocking the doorway, but as she watched he reluctantly extended his hand to shake Richard's. She began to size them up without realizing it. Will was perhaps two inches shorter, although that could be because he wasn't wearing shoes. Richard was broader in the shoulders, with thicker muscled arms. Will would be quicker on his feet. Of the two of them, Will had the best reflexes.

She was being ridiculous, of course. What reason could they possibly have to fight?

Richard shoved past Will and stalked into the front hallway without accepting the handshake, immediately disappearing out of her line of sight. She heard doors opening from the depths of the house, and his heavy footfalls as he strode from one room to the other. Searching for her, perhaps?

She went quickly down the stairs, taking them two at a time yet trying to be silent about it. They seemed to know each other well enough to loath each other. That bit she couldn't work out, but felt that it was her responsibility to mediate the confrontation before it turned bloody.

God, none of this made sense.

"Call Elizabeth down," Richard demanded. His tone was so dangerous that she instinctively skidded to a stop on the second-floor landing. "I know why she's here, but the little bitch is a liar. Whatever she tells you won't be true."

She'd never heard him so furious before. Cautiously, feeling the tiniest flicker of fear, she peeked over the rail again. Will was standing calmly on the bottom step of the staircase, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed. A subtle yet threatening gesture meant to block Richard's ascent if he decided to continue his search. Whether intentional or not, Will had gained the advantage--he was looking down on Richard from his slight vantage point on the stair. Will's back was to her, but she could see Richard's face clearly.

He had assumed the authoritative, intimidating pose he used when dealing with a business crisis or those numerous employees he considered to rank below him. His eyes were hard and cold, his jaw set and his shoulders squared, and she could see him flexing his right hand as if preparing to throw a punch. It was very subtle, and Will likely hadn't noticed, but she had watched Richard spar at his gym enough to pick up on the detail.

"Oh, so that's it," Will responded at last, feigning enlightenment. She could hear the smirk behind his tone, even though she couldn't see his face. His words suggested that some lewd insinuation was coming, and she suddenly feared for his life. Richard would absolutely murder him. "You think she's here to do business? Your name hasn't come up at all--"

"Will!"

She called a warning, but it came too late.

…_to be continued…_


	4. Mistakes

_A Year On An Airplane  
Chapter 4: Mistakes

* * *

_

Hesitantly, Elizabeth lifted the makeshift ice pack, a plastic freezer bag filled with ice, away from Will's hand to examine the damage once again. Her own fingers were frozen solid. His hand had to be numb as well.

"Can you move it at all?"

She wasn't holding out for a response. Will hadn't spoken a word to her since coming upstairs, and true to form, he remained silent and continued to glare at the floor. He wouldn't even look at her. He was hardly tolerating her. His posture remained stiff and tense as he leaned back against the marble countertop, and she felt that one slight misstep would be the trigger for him to pull his hand away.

These were the consequences of her actions. Will's injuries, his silence, his blank emotionless gaze, the guilt and frustration and hopelessness she felt as she watched him. And the regret. So much regret.

It should have been obvious from the beginning, from their first kiss, from the first words he'd spoken to her almost six years ago. Will had _loved_ her. And in the end, she hadn't had enough faith in him to take a chance on his proposal. It had been easier to run.

"Should I call you a cab?"

She snapped her eyes away from Will's hand to look up at him, both relieved and a little frightened that he'd finally spoken. His voice was flat and toneless, hardly above a whisper, and he continued to stare at the floor rather than make eye contact.

The suggestion that she might want to leave again stung. He didn't trust her, would probably never trust her again. He wouldn't allow himself to believe that she truly wanted to stay this time. Or perhaps she had him wrong. It was possible that he wished she would go. It was possible that she had ruined any chance she had with him back in New York, and he was attempting to be tactful in kicking her out.

"You look worried," he added with a half shrug, still mumbling to the tiled floor. When had he been looking?

"I am."

The truth slipped out before she could stop it. The wild need to communicate with him had made silence and censorship impossible. Their relationship--what remained of it--was precariously balanced. The only way to possibly hold on to him now was with unwavering honesty and a great deal of luck.

She couldn't bring herself to expound upon it. Not yet. It was Will's move, and she needed to be assured of his attention. All he had to do was ask. He _would_ ask. She still knew him that well, at least. He would ask why she looked worried, and meet her eyes, and she could explain and make things right again.

"You should be at the hospital. Looking after your _fiancé_."

He spat the word, and she was oddly grateful for the venom behind his tone. Disgust was an emotion, and an encouraging sign that he hadn't shut down completely. If he began putting up walls, she wouldn't stand a chance.

The meaning behind his words, however, wasn't at all encouraging. She could hardly believe it. How could he possibly think, after everything, that she and Richard were still engaged? How could he assume so readily that she was willing to abandon him again?

"He isn't the one I'm concerned about, Will." At last, he met her eyes. His gaze was intense and made her uncomfortable, but she didn't dare look away. He was reading her, as only he could. "And Richard _isn't_ my fiancé anymore. I gave the ring back."

"You're good at that."

Ouch. She couldn't ever recall Will being vindictive, but she might have deserved it. He certainly wasn't making this any easier. He had to choose now, of all times, to bring up New York.

She wasn't entirely sure how to reply to that, but he didn't seem to be looking for an answer at all. His eyes were on the floor again. Something told her, however, that he didn't quite want to leave. He was still allowing her to hold his injured hand cradled in her own. She didn't doubt that he was more hurt than angry at this point.

Attempting to apologize again would be both pointless and inadequate. She pressed the ice back against his bruised knuckles.

"_Stop_, Elizabeth!" His voice was sharp, and he wrenched his swollen hand away so violently that she heard the involuntary hiss of pain cross his lips. His tone and the dark expression behind his eyes as he met her gaze again kept her from protesting. "I can't play your games anymore. Not this time."

"I'm not playing games!" she called after him, trailing close behind as he stalked back into the bedroom.

"'_I can't make the same mistake twice!'_" Will stopped dead and rounded on her, his voice rising into a forceful shout. She'd known him too long to be intimidated. "What about that, then? You were using me to make him jealous, admit it!"

"I wasn't! You took it out of context," she replied firmly, struggling to keep her tone even. It was so tempting to shout back at him, as she did with Richard. "What I meant--"

"I didn't take it out of goddamn context! Our relationship was the biggest mistake of your life. I get it. At least have the decency to give me the truth. You don't have to spare my feelings, Elizabeth. You certainly didn't bother to in New York."

He walked away again, turning his back on her and striding quickly for the doorway. She didn't intend to let him leave. Not like that, without giving her a proper chance to explain herself. He didn't get to pick a fight then back out without giving her a chance to speak.

"_William Turner_!"

He immediately paused and whipped around at his name, surprisingly enough. She could hear her voice echoing down the staircase in the heavy silence that followed. Will was waiting, his eyes narrowed and his lips pulled down into a scowl.

"Yes, I said it, but you misunderstood. I have made mistakes, and you were one of them, in a way. What I said was that it was a mistake to _leave_ you. I was wrong to be frightened of what your proposal meant. I was wrong to leave the way I did."

Her tone grew progressively quieter as she spoke, encouraged by Will's unwavering attention. He was still scowling and scrutinizing her, but he had also tilted his head a fraction of an inch to the side, in the endearing way he did when confused by something.

Elizabeth felt suddenly nervous. This chance to speak with him openly and honestly about her decision to leave was more than she could have hoped for. It was the opportunity she had fantasized about innumerable times. She had rehearsed in her head what she would say, imagined his every possible reaction, played out every scenario a thousand times.

She was never able to predict the outcome. It was comforting to imagine that Will would unquestioningly accept her apology and pull her in for a kiss, but that was nothing more than idle wishing. The decision to place her hand over the lid of the ring box and press it closed, while Will still offered it down on one knee for her in his open palm, had tormented her relentlessly. To watch the panic flash behind his eyes had been the truest form of torture.

Tears bit at the corners of her eyes, and she drew in a sharp breath to hold them back. She wanted so badly for Will to hold her again, or at least allow her to touch him. It was the sort of comfort they both could use at this point.

It wouldn't happen. Will shifted positions to lean against the door frame with his arms crossed. He was waiting, not intending to make this easy.

"I lied to you, Will." The words sounded thick as she forced them out, and her voice trembled. She might have imagined it, but it seemed that his expression softened just a bit. "I said…. The day after, in your apartment, I told you I needed more. The best. I called it too complicated. Those were all lies. What I really needed was for you to show me how thoughtlessly I was behaving. I needed you to shout at me and force me to see."

"I couldn't." His tone was soft again, a great contrast to the last time he'd spoken. However, it wasn't comforting. It was still firm. He was stating fact. "It was tempting, but I couldn't. I didn't want to _convince_ you to marry me. If I had, I'd always have wondered if you stayed because you loved me, or if you stayed out of sympathy. I didn't pretend to understand. I don't think I wanted to. It hurt less to let you go than trying to convince you to stay."

He maintained eye contact, his posture still stiff and defensive. She got the impression once again that he was waiting, but she didn't know what to say to that. She didn't know how to explain what she'd done.

"I gave up, Elizabeth." Will continued to lean against the door frame, but now his hands were jammed deep in the pockets of his blood splattered pants. More casual, less guarded. "I put the relationship entirely in your hands and allowed you to make a decision that should have been made by both of us. I'm as much responsible as you are for the way things turned out."

She knew what he was trying to do. Will was altruistic by nature, yes, but blaming himself was an evasive tactic. This was the point where she was expected to agree and shout at him for ruining their relationship, so he could be angry with her in return and they could stop talking.

He wasn't getting off that easily.

"You don't get to take credit for what happened. You didn't give up. You trusted me to make a choice--the right choice--and I chose to be selfish. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know how much I regret running away. I cared more about their opinions than how much I knew I was hurting you. I was so wrong, Will. Everything I did and said was wrong. And…and I'm sorry."

He continued to watch her, unmoving, his eyes hard and unfamiliar. Somewhere along the way she had misspoken. Perhaps it was frustration over the fact that she hadn't given him his opening to walk away, or maybe it was the truth of her words and the knowledge that she had realized how badly she was hurting him at the time.

Whatever the cause, something about him had changed. She couldn't read him. He wasn't her Will anymore. The expression behind his eyes was wholly unrecognizable. She got the impression that while she had been granted her chance to speak uninterrupted, now Will intended to take that same liberty.

"I _waited_ for you, Elizabeth!" He didn't shout, but the forceful, harsh thrumming of his words was perhaps more terrible. "I knew you wouldn't be back, but I waited. Because I loved you."

She didn't miss his word choice, whether it had been intentional or not. Past tense. Loved. It stung, and she struggled to find words to make him understand. He cut her off.

"I still see it. That moment, when you closed the door. It's more vivid now than the day it happened. I can still hear it, feel it, _breathe_ it. Everything changed. _Everything_. And it was your fault."

She still felt it, too. She could still see it. Will had to be aware that leaving had hurt her as well as him. That everything had changed in her world as well as his.

It was all immaterial at this point. Clearly her apology had come too late, as she had feared it would. Will was right, and she had only herself to blame.

"Sorry doesn't mean anything." As if reading her thoughts, Will continued, this time crossing the bedroom to meet her as he spoke. "It's a word you've always used to justify…. Sorry doesn't fix it. You should have come back, the instant you realized what a _terrible_ mistake you'd made." The sarcastic, mocking tone of his last words cut deeper than she had expected it to. "If you thought it was a mistake at all. I'm still not convinced."

If he would only listen to her, truly listen for a single minute, she felt that he would understand. He could be capable of rationality, if he'd only let his guard down. If he could somehow accept that she wasn't back to hurt him again.

"Will, please--"

He covered the remaining distance between them in two quick strides. The swiftness of his movements and the fire behind his eyes unnerved her. She had a quick flash of memory, the moment in the foyer when he had landed a second unprovoked hit to Richard's already-broken nose.

She instinctively backed away, wary of what he could be capable of and hating herself for the anxiousness. His left hand, the uninjured one, closed tightly around her forearm, holding her firmly but not painfully.

"I'm not convinced because it took all of this for you to face me. Coincidence and accident, or fate, or destiny, or whatever the hell this is supposed to be. After what felt like a God-given year on an airplane with you, pretending the past never happened, reliving the way I felt about you and everything our relationship meant, deceiving myself into thinking it wouldn't matter, that I could still walk away and slip straight back into what I've become. After everything, you pick _now_. A now that shouldn't have happened two days ago."

He regretted it. He regretted meeting her again. How much had she managed to complicate his life in the short forty-eight hours they'd spent together?

Hot, angry tears began making tracks down her cheeks, and this time she didn't bother to hold them back. She didn't care anymore. This single moment--facing Will and finally being assaulted with the consequences of her decisions--was the lowest point in a lifetime of mistakes and miscalculations. She should never have come here.

His eyes flicked briefly down from hers to take in the tears. He scoffed and shook his head faintly in what she took for disbelief, at the same time pulling her closer. So close she had to tilt her head up to keep eye contact.

"This is what you _do_, Elizabeth. It's what you live for. You come in whenever it benefits you. You play your games. You decimate…everything. Then you walk out. You walk out like none of it ever happened, never once considering what you leave behind when you go."

"I don't." If she were entirely honest with herself, she'd admit to being a bit frightened of him. The bruise shadowing his left cheek, just below and around his eye, gave him a threatening impression. Her voice trembled, but the words came out strongly. "It was never a game to me."

"You have no idea." The incredulous, darkly cynical chuckle that accompanied the words surprised her. It was almost physically painful to see him so defensive and contemptuous. When had he become like this? "You'll never understand. Whatever your apology meant, sincere or not, it can't erase…."

She couldn't understand the end. His voice trailed off to a whisper, his lips hardly moving. Slowly, she felt his grip around her forearm go slack, his fingertips trailing down her skin. The feather light touch made her shiver. His fingers slid behind her palm, and he began to trace soft circles against the back of her hand with his thumb.

She felt a tiny spark of the old Will, just for an instant. Then he blew out a frustrated sigh and took a step back, breaking the contact.

"It can't erase what I've lived, or what you've done."

He began to turn away, and she didn't bother to stop him. What was the point of it all? She had apologized and made a final effort, but she had lost him. It was undeniably over. No more daydreams or midnight fantasies about meeting him again. No reason to spend time piecing together inadequate explanations. It was all done with.

He walked out, never looking back. She watched the door until his footsteps faded away downstairs and the house was silent again. She no longer felt welcome or comforted by being there. The house was cavernous and cold and entirely empty of Will's charm. It was all cardboard boxes and darkly wooded furniture and dark leather. And it was so huge. Far too big for one person.

She wondered, with a pang of regret, if Will had bought this house for two people. He had told her nothing about his life now. She hadn't noticed a wedding band, but he could very well have a girlfriend or a fiancé.

She tried to reason away that idea. So far, all she had seen was a selection of Will's clothes and several pieces of furniture. Nothing that even suggested a serious relationship. No personal effects or trinkets or framed pictures.

The curiosity wouldn't leave her. She was tempted for the briefest of moments to rifle through the stack of boxes on the opposite side of the room, and perhaps learn a bit more about him. She forced the idea away almost as quickly as it came. Going through his boxes wouldn't change anything. Will was finished with her, if she judged by his parting words.

That was another nagging curiosity. What had he meant, '_It can't erase what I've lived'_? It was a decidedly cryptic statement. It gave her the impression he wasn't telling her everything.

And _how_ did he know Richard? Why did they hate each other so much? How had Will's new house coincidentally come to be on the opposite side of Berkeley Square from hers?

It was all too much. Will was definitely keeping something from her. If she could only get him to talk again, and let his guard down. She decided to lead with her question about Richard. It was a valid reason to approach Will again, far better than demanding an explanation for his enigmatic final statement.

Elizabeth forced herself to wait in his bedroom, watching the minutes count up on her mobile screen until she had given him a full quarter hour to himself. She certainly felt more composed and rational after the short time alone. Perhaps a break was all Will needed as well.

She left his room slowly, listening for any sounds that would indicate where he'd gone. The house was silent and still, but as she reached the bottom of the staircase and stepped into the foyer, she knew where to find him. The smell of garlic coming from the kitchen was synonymous with Will cooking.

With a feigned confidence she didn't truly feel, Elizabeth crossed the foyer, careful to sidestep the small flecks of blood glistening on the floor. A pair of frosted glass French doors blocked access to the kitchen, but she boldly curled her fingers around the crystal knob and pulled one back, slipping soundlessly through.

The kitchen, unlike the rest of the house, was immediately comforting. The scents of Italian food made her feel at home in a way she hadn't since walking out on Will. The smell of garlic and parmesan, pasta, and fresh bread made for a calm, reassuring atmosphere. Even the soft jazz coming from the iPod dock on the counter was the same, slow melodies with wandering piano and horn breaks.

Will stood on the opposite side of the kitchen, his back to her as he stirred something in a large skillet. Riot was underfoot, whining for a taste and pawing at his leg. She pulled the door back slowly, hoping to ease it closed again without disturbing Will, but the small click as it shut caught the dog's attention. Its latest whine built into a bark, and it abandoned Will in favor of crossing the room to investigate her.

She wasn't the least bit concerned with the dog. It was Will she watched. His shoulders sagged as he laid a spoon on the counter and turned away from whatever he was cooking. The air of defiance had entirely vanished from his countenance. He was no longer intense or looking for a fight.

She stood frozen just inside the kitchen doors, unsure of what came next. She didn't feel comfortable demanding answers from him, or speaking at all, really. She didn't want to bring up Richard, or what had taken place in the foyer. But what else was there? That had been her single conversation point, her excuse for coming downstairs. Will was watching, and didn't seem inclined to speak first. She had to say something.

"You were stirring with your left," she observed at last, her eyes flicking briefly to his injured hand. He never had allowed her to take care of it properly. "Do you need me to help?"

"You can drain the pasta and set the table, if you want," he told her with a noncommittal shrug, then turned his attention back to the stove. She breathed a little sigh of relief and went to join him. Their first exchange after the fight upstairs had turned out to be surprisingly civil, and with any luck would set the tone for the conversation she intended to have with him.

She rinsed her hands quickly at the sink then leaned around his shoulder, curiosity getting the better of her. She still couldn't make out exactly what he was cooking, but the combination of scents was oddly familiar.

"What are you making?"

"Your favorite." She had expected to be rebuked for the close contact, but Will only glanced briefly at her and gave her the smallest ghost of a tentative smile. "I hope it's still your favorite."

How had he possibly remembered her favorite? She moved to stand beside him rather than behind, earning a clear view of the stove and countertop. She was surprised, but also felt that she should have expected it. Pasta caprese and grilled shrimp. They'd had it in a restaurant once. Will had duplicated it for her when they couldn't get reservations again.

"Still my favorite," she assured him. She felt she should say something more, thank him or perhaps beg him once again to accept her apology. She lifted the pasta from the glass-top stove instead and went to the sink to drain it as Will had asked. He didn't respond, but once she brought the pasta back and dumped it into the skillet with the sauce, as she knew that was the next step, he gave her a faint grin.

She almost returned it. He must have felt the nostalgia too. It was impossible to count the number of times they had prepared this same meal, sidestepping each other in his tiny kitchen.

"Can I ask you something, Will?" Perhaps it wasn't the best timing, but it was certainly better than falling into painful memories again. She kept her tone light and conversational, hoping they wouldn't degenerate into another shouting match.

"Oh, right." He was distracted, now adding chopped tomatoes to the pasta and sauce. Clearly he had no idea what she was on about. "Plates and silverware are in the dishwasher, and wine glasses if you'd like that as well. We'll have to eat at the island on barstools. The dining room's packed with boxes."

"That isn't what I meant," she replied, but went to retrieve everything anyway. She made sure to take wine glasses as Will had suggested. After the morning she'd had, there was no way she'd refuse.

"I know what you meant," Will muttered, joining her at the island with the pasta and shrimp. "I owe you an explanation." He began to divide the food onto the two plates she'd brought over. She waited impatiently for a moment, expecting him to continue. "Jack got into the wine, of course. There should be an open bottle in the fridge."

His evasiveness was absolutely maddening. What did he possibly think could be achieved by avoiding the conversation? He had nothing to lose. They'd already had one row. Why should a second matter? He was mistaken if he thought she'd let it drop. He had lied to her, pretended he knew nothing of her engagement. He hadn't said anything at all when she mentioned Berkeley Square.

"You know we have to talk."

He ignored that, going back to retrieve breadsticks from the oven. He took far longer than necessary, and eventually she gave up on him and went to find the wine. The refrigerator was empty except for the corked bottle and a few takeaway boxes. And dessert. She felt her frustration with him lessen a bit.

"You didn't have to do dessert, too," she told him quietly. She was beginning to feel guilty for shouting at him upstairs and forcing him to talk now. She could still drop the conversation. She wasn't even certain she wanted to know.

"Yeah, I did," he replied, waiting patiently for her to retrieve the wine, taking the bottle from her and filling the glasses once she had. "You've always love tiramisu."

She had to know. Even if it led to another disagreement, she needed to hear his reasons for doing this. It didn't make sense for him to still care about any aspect of her life.

"Tell me what's going on, Will," she appealed gently. He still wasn't comfortable around her after their row, that much was apparent. Avoidance had always been his first defense against confrontation with her. "How do you know Richard?"

"I thought it would be easier this way," he told her softly. He moved to the opposite side of the island and sat, his fingers absently tracing the base of his wineglass. "On both of us."

She slid onto the barstool across from him and waited. He didn't need to be pushed. If she was reading him correctly, he was fighting against the temptation to be entirely honest with her. Restless fidgeting had usually been a sure sign of that.

"This is dinner, Will." She reached out and caught his hand, surprised by how tense he felt beneath her slack grip. "Not an interrogation."

He pulled his hand away and averted his eyes. She feared for a moment that the contact had been going too far, but then he took out his wallet and retrieved a business card. He slid it across the island's granite surface and became intensely interested in his pasta shortly after.

Did all of this really make him so uncomfortable? It was a simple question. She was well within her rights to ask why one ex-fiancé had attacked the other.

She turned her attention to the business card as Will silently picked at his dinner. It wasn't anything flashy or special. A company name, Black Sail Communications, was printed in black in one corner. In the opposite corner was a logo, the silhouette of a sailing ship. The logo sparked something in the back of her mind. She felt a faint familiarity with it, as if she'd seen it somewhere before.

Her eyes skipped to the middle of the card, where she expected to see Will's name. It was there, _William J. Turner_, in loopy italicized script. It was the three letters printed after his name that made her breath catch with a sharp little gasp of disbelief.

_CEO_.

She read it again, just to be sure. There were contact numbers underneath. Seattle, London, a fax number, an email address. She dragged her eyes once more back to the center of the card, but the letters hadn't changed. They still proclaimed him Chief Executive Officer.

"When?" Her voice came out in a whisper, high pitched with incredulity. She laid the card down so she could focus entirely on him. "Will, _how_?"

Excitement slowly overshadowed her astonishment. He had done well for himself. He had done _incredibly_ well. It explained the swank house in Berkeley Square, and the plane tickets, and his disregard for the cab fare. He had gotten on perfectly well without her, and while she expected to feel regretful and hurt over the fact, in actuality she only felt proud of him. He was successful. Success translated into happiness.

"Almost three years ago."

The sound of his voice shocked her back to the present moment. His tone hadn't been so happy. He sounded downright morose.

She should have realized it immediately. Work had been his replacement for their relationship. Rising through the ranks of this company had become his new focus.

"After I left," she muttered, tacking on the accusatory statement herself. This was just another consequence of her walking out so carelessly, albeit a fortunate one for Will.

"No." His tone was losing emotion again, going flat just as it had upstairs. "Jack and I took out the loans the week before graduation. We had the legal side taken care of. The night I proposed, we were officially a small business."

She glanced back at the business card. Will hadn't worked his way up through the company at all. He had made his own. She felt shock settling back in.

"I knew the sort of pressure your father was putting on you. I knew he thought I wasn't good enough. I meant for it to be a surprise, to make our engagement easier."

What had Will ever done to deserve her? She was an absolutely terrible person. She had realized, to an extent, that everything he'd done in their relationship had been for her. She had failed to realize how deeply his commitment had extended.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She hadn't known. She had though there weren't any secrets between them. Will had always been unfailingly open with her.

His eyes snapped up to meet hers, his gaze absolutely piercing. She couldn't look away.

"Would it have made a difference?"

The question was loaded. His intensity from earlier had come surging back. Perhaps this question had tormented his thoughts for the past three years, as her regret and the need to apologize had tormented her.

She felt sick at the reality of it, but her answer was yes. She knew her twenty-two year old self well enough to realize that the knowledge would have made all the difference in the world. Starting a company was a risk, a huge one, but it showed ambition. Her father would have respected that. She would have immensely enjoyed parading Will around to all of her friends, bragging about her fiancé and his start-up company.

She wished desperately to give him the answer he needed. To reassure him that her attachment had been just as deep as his. That her love hadn't been so superficial or easily swayed.

She had never been able to lie to him. Her silence seemed to be enough answer.

"That's why I didn't tell you."

The words were rather unemotional, with just a hint of biting disgust. Enough to send a little stab of regret burning through her chest. He broke their gaze, but the intensity was still there, lingering just behind his carefully neutral mask.

Everything was coming out all wrong. They'd had their fight. This was the point where they were supposed to try and mend what was left. Elizabeth slid the business card into her hand again.

"This doesn't matter, Will." His eyes lifted ever so slightly to watch her, although he kept his head down. She tore the card in half and drew a deep breath to steel her nerve. "It took losing you to teach me that lesson. It doesn't make a difference. It would have then, I'll admit that, but I know what counts now."

"You were always good with words, Elizabeth," he replied, his tone more civil than before. She was relieved he'd managed to check whatever emotions had been driving his previous words. She couldn't bear another fight. "Telling me what I wanted to hear. I'm not sure I can trust words now."

"I can't blame you for that," she told him softly. They fell into silence, Elizabeth having her first taste of the pasta Will had gone to the trouble to prepare. It was better than she remembered, and for several minutes she was content with their quietude. It wasn't until their fingers brushed over the basket of breadsticks, and Will quickly withdrew his hand to pour them more wine instead, that she spoke again. It was ridiculous for a simple meal to be so awkward, even if their situation was unconventional.

"I'd like to hear more about this," she appealed, tapping the remains of the business card with a finger. They could at least have polite conversation. "What sort of company is it?"

"Public relations."

Will's answer was short, but with a sudden spark of realization she remembered where she'd seen the company logo before. The ship silhouette had been emblazoned across a stack of billing statements in Richard's office, and also in the corner of the occasional printed-out email.

"Richard hired you!"

She realized too late that perhaps it might be a sore subject. Everything was quickly falling into place in her mind, making censorship impossible. If Will was in contact with Richard, he had to have known of her engagement. How many other things did he know? How much was he covering up?

She tried to think back to the first time she'd seen the company's letterhead in the apartment. It had been a while ago, to be sure. Before they contemplated moving to London, before the proposal.

"He came to us almost a year ago." As if reading her thoughts, Will began giving her answers. "After he punched that governor at a charity event."

"Senator," she corrected him, and ducked her head in embarrassment. She had tried very hard to block that night from memory. It had been horrible. Richard tended to get a bit irrational when he had too much alcohol.

"Whatever," Will shrugged, and took a sip of his wine. He didn't seem inclined to offer sympathy on the matter, for which she was grateful. "We didn't hesitate when we agreed to represent him. You know who his father is. It was good for business."

She made a small sound of agreement, dragging her eyes up to meet his again. Any connection with Richard's family would have been beneficial for the business, between the oil fortune and the diamond mines in Africa, and the humanitarian work and charities. His family's resume was ridiculous.

"I didn't know then he was dating you, or I would've refused," Will continued, taking her somewhat by surprise. He didn't give the statement time to register properly. "Anyway, we smoothed the whole mess over for him and kept the story out of the papers. I thought we were done, until he published that damned book. We'd done such a great job with the senator scandal that he wanted us to do his press release for the book as well. He brought us a picture to send out with it."

"The engagement photo." She knew the picture. The candid shot of the pair of them kissing in a restaurant, seconds after he'd slipped the ring on her finger. Will confirmed her assumption with a short nod.

"It turned out the press release was supposed to be a joint announcement. The book and your engagement. I knew you the instant I saw that picture. I turned the account over to Jack and walked out, and I told him not to mention it. It was one aspect of the business I didn't want to know about. We'd been considering taking the company international, so I threw myself into the London branch as a distraction. I wanted to run. I thought I could come here and get away."

She had the impulse to apologize again, but checked it. Will had made it quite clear her apologies meant nothing. He had stated very pointedly that he couldn't trust her again. At some point, she had to stop trying to win him over and accept his words at face value.

"And then we were leaving the airport, and you told me Berkeley Square, and all I could do was wonder what I had possibly done to deserve that punishment. I came here to get away from you, and you ended up being right across the park with your fiancé. I thought about putting the house back on the market and going straight back to Seattle."

He'd thought about it, which sounded to her as if he didn't intend to act upon it. She wanted to ask what had changed his mind, but chose a less intrusive question instead. No point in pushing him into silence.

"Why did Richard think I came here?"

"He was probably afraid you'd tell about him cheating," Will suggested after a moment. "Jack and I knew his reputation from the start. We warned him at the beginning that we'd terminate our contract, if he pulled anything like this. I don't cover up infidelity for dirty cheating bastards."

Will would deny it if she asked, but in her mind the stipulation had been an effort on his part to protect her. She longed to ask why he'd done it, but again resisted. For every question she got answered, another took its place. The new ones she'd likely never have answered.

"I'd suggest you announce the engagement's off now," Will added, standing and beginning to clear the dishes, "before he finds another publicist."

"That's something that should wait." She had considered it already, and was confident that her decision was the right one. Will shot her an incredulous glance. "I'm not going back to him, Will," she added hurriedly. "It's just…I don't want to deal with that. It's easier to keep it quiet. Hurting him because he hurt me won't fix anything."

"Well _I_ still want to hit him," she heard Will mutter under his breath, as he moved away to dump the dishes in the sink. She allowed herself a small smile at his indignant tone.

A sudden burst of music rent the momentary quiet of the kitchen, a song she recognized as being sung by the Temptations, although she couldn't place the title. The noise was coming from Will's Blackberry, resting on the edge of the island. He came back to retrieve it, took one look at the display, and swallowed hard.

"It's Jack," he told her, hesitating to answer. It would be news of Richard. A law suit had probably been suggested. At last, he jabbed the screen and put the phone to his ear, answering with a rather sheepish and reluctant, "Hullo?"

She immediately heard a blur of sound from the other end, a man shouting, although she couldn't make out the words. Will winced and shot a quick glance at her before moving out of the kitchen. To hell with privacy. She followed him, half running to catch him up.

"He started it," Will was saying into the phone as she came up beside him. She wondered if he realized how childish it sounded. He glanced to her again and furrowed his eyebrows in annoyance at her persistence. They were standing near the stairs; his free hand fell to rest at the small of her back and he gave her a little push to start her climbing. She went, but not until she was sure he'd follow.

"It does matter! He pushed his way in and started threatening Elizabeth. What was I supposed to do?" It made her feel a bit awkward, being talked about. She focused on climbing the stairs, pretending she wasn't eavesdropping. "I know that…." A pause. Will growled under his breath. "You're wrong, Jack. As long as she's in this house she _is_ my responsibility. I wasn't going to let him…what?"

They'd reached the second floor landing. Will started down the hallway and turned a corner, Elizabeth following a half step behind until he stopped dead and she ran into him.

"I'm not asking her to do that," he told Jack flatly. "I'll take care of it myself. Put him on."

"You're not asking me to do what?" she immediately wanted to know, anxiety gripping her stomach. It sounded as if she could be of use, and Will wasn't going to let her. She wished he would. She wanted to do something to help, after the kindnesses he'd shown her. "You're going to speak with Richard, aren't you?" Will ignored her and pushed open the closest door.

"Wait here," he told her firmly. The order left no room for objection. He was all business again, just as he'd been in the airport. She gave him one last pleading look, certain it wouldn't have any effect, then stepped into the room. Will closed the door behind her, but she heard him bark a very clipped, aggressive greeting into the phone before he moved out of earshot.

Presumably he'd come back and tell her the result of the phone call. On consideration, she thought that perhaps she'd rather hear it from Will than witness it firsthand. The anticipation and anxiety would be unbearable if she heard the conversation as it happened.

A quick glimpse of the area revealed it to be a living room. Like the other rooms she'd seen, it was packed with boxes, but there was a flat screen television and a DVD player on a television stand, and a table and suede sofa set up across from it.

She went to sit on the sofa and wait. The television controls were on the table in front of her, but she didn't care to use them. Her only concern at the moment was Will, and whether or not Richard was being nasty with talk of lawyers and suing.

She waited for what seemed an eternity, finally becoming impatient and curling up in a corner of the couch. She gave in and found a Project Runway repeat on the television when it became clear Will wasn't coming back promptly. Slowly, the worry faded into a faint curiosity. She got comfortable against the sofa cushions and pulled a folded blanket from the opposite end to snuggle with. After a bit longer she closed her eyes, but she promised herself it would only be until the commercial break was over.

_There was a moment of idle wandering before her eyes locked on that dreadful same apartment door, the one that had evolved into a symbol for a matter not-so-simple at all. This time, opening it came with a decision that would be past the point of no return once made. Even for him. Swallowing revealed the raw tightness of her throat. The thought of facing him, with that look in his eye... No, there could be no other thoughts to the contrary. This was right, even if it was difficult. _

_The harsh mockery of the word left a bitter taste that made her feel sick. She didn't want to do this._

_Yes, she did. Difficult, that's all it was. She just had to keep telling herself that, and it would all work out. Similar to pulling a band-aid; quick, sharp, then done. She fingered the scratched and chipped key in her hand, then reached for the door, her heels clicking against the wood flooring. Slowly, she let herself into his apartment, closed the door behind her, and abandoned her key on the little table in the hallway. Her father was right, and her friends were right; she..._

_She'd gone through this far too many times to be tolerated. Every time, that same wicked anxiety and blind determination hurled her to an end she'd only ever wish to forget, if not undo. She'd hurt him, and he'd let her. Even worse was the way that she'd let herself, so easily. Not this time. This time, she'd turn away._

_She did._

_With her turn, there came a change. Her throat was still tight with emotion, but her remorse had shocked itself into a painful fury. She slipped into the stairwell and began taking the steps two at a time. Richard had demanded answers, but she hadn't cared. She didn't owe him an explanation. He didn't come after her. She heard the door shut before she was halfway down. _

_She emerged into the snow outside, her breath coming in harsh gasps and her head spinning. Tears threatened, but she only allowed herself one broken sob before forcing the rest down. She plunged into the street at a run, her heels slipping in the snow. Horns blared, but somehow she reached the park safely without being flattened by traffic. She followed Will's footprints through the snow to the opposite side, and dashed across the street again. She looked back toward Richard's flat, but he wasn't pursuing her. It didn't matter. She'd rather have Will. _

_She vaulted Will's front steps; she mounted the staircase; she reached the second-floor landing, but she continued on. Suddenly nervous, she went at a sedate walk toward his room, moving until she stood in the doorway._

_He was waiting patiently, watching her with a mixture of concern and slight confusion. _

"_I'm so sorry, darling."_

_Something inside her broke. She didn't deserve him now, after everything. He was sincere, and it made her feel worse. He was still giving her the option of walking away, but she didn't want to take it. Slowly, she nodded her assent and mouthed a 'thank you,' although she couldn't find her voice to communicate a more appropriate show of gratitude. The tears were choking her. Will gave her a sad smile and reluctantly stepped from the room, closing the door behind him. _

_God, no. She automatically took a step after him, willing him to come back. She knew he'd never be able to make himself love her again. What she'd done to him was unforgivable. Her silence had hurt him, she knew. Why did she always manage to hurt the single person who mattered? _

_The doorbell rang. It was a deep gong-like sound, and reverberated up the staircase loudly enough to reach her two floors up. She opened the door of Will's room and heard Will do the same downstairs. The buzzing whoosh of outdoor din invaded the somber quiet of his home, bringing the chilled winter air up the stairwell with hearty echoes. But even chiller was the sound and echo of that voice._

"_Turner," it simpered. Even then, before she could peer over the landing rail, she'd known who it was._

"_Richard."_

_She heard Richard make his way in uninvited, more than she saw. A strange sick had taken her stomach, and her focus faded from what it had been. Little love had existed for the scene the first time it had happened, and now that it was here again there was no love at all. She didn't wish to see, and somehow her mind made use of that wish. It muffled the moment with sudden dizziness—but the sounds were still clear. She thought she was going down the stairs..._

_Her head was spinning. _

"_Call Elizabeth down. I know why she's here, but the little bitch is a liar. Whatever she tells you won't be true."_

_She _wasn't _going back with him._

"_Oh, so that's it. You think she's here to do business? Your name hasn't come up at all—"_

_Her unexplained vertigo faded, just in time to see Richard's expression flare. She belatedly remembered the implications of Will's snide remark, and how Richard tensed with a telltale snarl. Her throat tightened to release before she could think to stop it._

"_Will!"_

_Richard saw her before she spoke, and his predicted lunge took an unpredicted turn. No punch or blow took place, though he aggressively grasped for Will's shirt. Will's reflexes were sharp and quick, but his snap to attention from his off-guard stance pushed him a second behind his opponent, costing him. He unfolded his arms to block the attack. Richard pushed through, already ahead, clutching the cloth about Will's collar and shoulders. He swung Will easily with his momentum, and slammed him against the wall with an onerous thud. Will flinched, and Elizabeth swallowed the end of her shout._

"_What the hell is this, Turner?"_

_Richard was growling again, this time directly into Will's face._

"_Why don't you tell me what you think it looks like, and I'll let you know if you're right."_

_There was that smugness from before. Will was taunting, refusing to give in to cowardice or bend to Richard's petty display of machismo. The perceived situation was enough to wound her recently-former-fiancé's pride. She'd run off on him, after all, and turned up in another man's home, descending the stairs wearing said other man's clothes in some kind of macabre reenactment of what she had just witnessed across the street. _

_What Richard didn't know would end up hurting Will, for certain. He was bound to punch him now, and just one would be a kindness. He began to move. She tensed._

_He turned away from Will, releasing him with a severely annoyed puff of air. Elizabeth released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Apparently, he had enough wits about him to remember that he wasn't here to brawl with Will. He was here for her, and his stormy grey eyes stared at her with such determined fervor there could be no dispute over the matter. She held his gaze, determined not to shy under its weight. Her unwilling step back betrayed her uneasiness. _

"_Come down here."_

_His rage was a controlled wrath now, but she knew if she obeyed he wouldn't hesitate in releasing it on her. He wouldn't hit her. He certainly wasn't spineless or even cold-hearted enough to go to that extent. But his tirades could be blows themselves, and it didn't help any that she'd rarely seen him so furious before. She couldn't find the will to move her mouth and deny... _

_Will. She allowed her eyes flit in his direction, and was taken somewhat aback by the similar heat that shocked his expression. His eyes bore into hers, as if silently rooting for his secret personal home team. He didn't speak it, would probably end up denying or disowning it, but it was easy to think that in his eyes she _needed _to turn Richard away. And she did, didn't she? She had no purpose in returning to him, especially not fear. There was her will—in Will. _

_She shook her head with a cutting whisper, "No."_

_He cracked a bit, almost letting restraint go, and took a step. She flinched but held her ground, even as he barked angrily, "Elizabeth, get your _ass _down here _now_."_

_Will bristled and reacted before she had a proper chance to. His hand flashed for the collar of Richard's shirt in an identical motion to what Richard had done before. But Richard had the advantage of his back to Will, easily snapping the offending hand away. _

"_Bugger off!" he spat, ripping about to face Will._

_Elizabeth_ _jumped—Will's fist flashed without warning, contacting easily with Richard's gut, doubling him over._

"_You speak to her like that, you can get_ your _arse out on the street."_

_Richard snarled, his patience exhausted. He swung at Will with his leg, rather than his arm, kicking out his support from under him. Will flipped over and, turning in his fall, landed violently against the bottom step on his neck and shoulder. Elizabeth choked on a sound caught between a gasp and a shriek, numbing over with that vertigo from before while the slap of his contact bled her ears. Why did she always manage to hurt the single person who mattered? _

_As Will slid to settle across a small stretch of floor, Richard was bolting up the stairs, rapidly closing the distance between himself and her. Her knees were locked, her world spinning in a dizzy display. _

_Somehow, Will was up again, vaulting the stairs two at a time. Yet Elizabeth still felt the shock of the moment shake her from the inside out, as her legs began to put distance between herself and Richard without her bidding; Richard had reached the top of the stair. With a shout, Will jumped from his place nearly halfway down the staircase, refusing to be thwarted and latching his arms around Richard's legs in a haphazard tackle. With a heavy pound, Will had his revenge through Richard's hard face-first meeting with the landing. Just as quick as Will's miraculous recovery, Richard spun around in his lock and launched at Will's face with a roar, sending both of them sliding down the stairs in a clattering decent._

_She couldn't take it anymore. There was nothing she could do against such angry rampages. They would tear each other apart while she watched, waiting for the police. Her mind began to swirl the events wickedly, only admitting her to glance at flashes of what had occurred. _

_Futile grappling between the two, with Richard having the upper hand once speed and movement were smothered away from Will. Her mind screamed for her to find a phone, to call for help, as Will was pinned to the ground and struggled for air against a deathly press to his throat by Richard's powerful forearm. Then he managed to launch the bigger man with a powerful kick of both legs. _

_Her stomach knotted._

_A heavy punch by Richard, dodged easily by a slick slide from Will, caused him to tangle in his loss of balance and tumble into the cardboard boxes along the wall opposite the stairs. Something glass inside one broke with a screeching shatter and rattle._

_A phone—she needed a phone. There was nothing else for it. She certainly couldn't hope to stop them herself._

_Once in her hand, it proved of little use. The sight of Richard and Will agonized her, dazing her enough that she accidentally dialed 9-1-1 instead of the proper emergency number, the one she'd grown up with. Blood flashed viciously. Will had Richard pinned against the wall, slamming hit after ungodly hit straight into his nose with a speed and savage resolve she had never before known him capable of. Rage defined him, storming hot, entirely belying the Will she had known. Where did this come from? _

_The door opened. Riot's barking and a shout shot through the room. Will and Richard were torn apart. Richard stayed where he had been forcibly abandoned by his opponent. Will was dragged across the room and pinned to the floor on his stomach by a man Elizabeth hadn't seen or given thought to since New York. _

_She dropped her phone._

_Her head cleared somewhat at the sight of Will bested. She rushed to his side, just as the man finished muttering something to her defiant host. She paid him little mind or courtesy._

"_Jack, get off him! Can't you see he's hurt?" she snapped, pushing him with all the force she could muster from atop Will. _

_Perhaps her response had been overdoing it, but her absolute futility during the fight had wounded her pride. Fear had temporarily dammed her reactions, and now they'd chosen to come pouring out all at once._

_She took Will's arm, gently helping him to a sitting position. His energy seemed at least momentarily exhausted by the faded adrenaline, so she guided him to lean against the wall. He worked to still his breathing, and she brushed a lock of hair from the streak of wayward blood drying on his cheek. It was the blood that revived the image of him viciously assaulting Richard's face. The Will she'd known may have defended, retaliated as necessary, but _that—_never that._

_She pulled her hand away warily, discomfited. Had she caused that change? Was it for her? Because of her? How many other alterations had occurred in his character since she last saw him?_

_A mention of hospital, Jack's assessment that Richard's nose was indeed broken, then the two men were headed for the door. Richard caught her gaze and held it, questioning and confused if still a bit angry. Something else as well. A minute hint of vulnerability. It was so new coming from him that she wasn't entirely certain how she had detected it. She felt a small pang of sympathy for him. She hadn't intended for _this _to happen, when she ran out on him. The blow to his pride would take longer to mend than a broken nose._

"_Had to be you, didn't it?" Jack's rhetorical sarcasm was aimed at her. Reluctantly, she shifted her gaze from Richard. Never had she felt so unwelcome by only a single glance and one short sentence._

"_Leave her out of it, Jack." Will, ever the noble rescuer, stepped in once more on her behalf. She wished he wouldn't. She deserved every admonishment Jack clearly wanted to shout at her._

"_You I'll deal with later," he muttered darkly to Will in return, then followed Richard out the door, closing it with a heavy bang. The silence was immediate and slightly overwhelming after the raucous din of the fight. The only sounds were muffled street noises and the soft jingle of Riot's collar as he padded across the foyer to Will. _

"_Alright?"_

_He sounded absolutely exhausted, his voice quiet and husky. The question was ridiculous. It should have been her asking him that. His eyes betrayed a slight hint of concern, and she suddenly realized how tightly she was clutching his arm. _

_She loosened her grip and nodded her assent, but didn't let him go. The impromptu brawl had frightened her, although she'd never admit it to him. Everything in her world had changed so quickly. She felt if she let him go, everything would fall apart. _

"_Will, I…" She meant to thank him, but the little jolt of sympathy for Richard came back unbidden. She didn't want to end things on those terms, having him think she held as little respect for him as he had demonstrated for her through the cheating. She had to watch the drive off, if nothing else. She hoped Will could understand. She certainly couldn't explain it. "I should at least go out and…."_

_She trailed off uncomfortably, unsure how to express her intention without giving Will the wrong idea. The last thing she wanted him to think was that she'd take Richard back, after everything he'd just gone through to kick him out for her._

"_Go on," he agreed softly. Relief followed his words, inexpressibly pleasant and drastically contrasting ever other emotion she was feeling. Of course Will understood. He always did._

_He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes with a deep sigh, although it turned into more of a pained moan toward the end. She gave his arm a soft, reflexive squeeze. She wasn't entirely certain he didn't need to go with Jack and Richard to the hospital. _

"_Stay here," she added, and reluctantly stood. She'd never felt so torn. Every instinct told her to remain on the floor with Will, to take advantage of the incredible second chance she'd been given. But Richard…there was that damned inexplicable urge to show him at least a miniscule amount of compassion. He didn't deserve the comfort, but the guilt would torment her nonetheless if she didn't go out. _

_Trying to ignore how similar her actions felt to that day in the apartment, walking out on Will, she crossed the foyer and slipped outside. A burst of icy air greeted her, stinging her cheeks. She jammed her hands into the front pocket of Will's pullover. _

_Jack was already attempting to hail a cab, but Richard was still on the front stairs, leaning against the concrete railing and clutching his nose with a bloodied hand. Slowly, he looked up and caught her eyes. _

_She wasn't sure how to read his emotions. The simple ones she could understand instantly; happiness, sadness, anger. It wasn't any of those. This was something new. Richard had never been as open with her as Will had. The expression behind his eyes now was entirely raw. After a moment of study she attempted to place it. Regret, and shame. But something more. Something wholly consuming. _

_Despondence. It defined him. No more arrogance or haughty indifference, no trace of pride. For the first time she could recall, he was truly allowing her in, giving her a glimpse of something deeper._

"_Was it just because of her?"_

_Just because of the cheating that she ran out on him? Her first instinct was to confirm his suspicion. It would be so simple to blame the entire state of affairs on him, but she knew in her heart that it wasn't just because of the cheating that their relationship had failed. She could be held accountable for half of the blame._

_There had been love, months ago, at the time of Richard's proposal. She wouldn't deny that. But it had gotten lost somehow. They'd become too involved in their own affairs, allowed tiny disagreements to go on unresolved and grow into larger ones. When apologies happened they came in the form of superfluous gifts or makeup sex. It reached a point where they were simply going through the motions. _

_Always the feeling that something was missing. Two similar puzzle pieces that almost-but-not-quite fit together. She wouldn't play games with him. There was nothing in the relationship worth salvaging, they were past that point. She owed him the truth, if nothing else._

"_No," she answered gently with a slight shake of her head. It wasn't the reply he was looking for. His gaze drifted down to the vicinity of his shoes, and she was left with no choice but to try and make him understand. Her conscience wouldn't allow for anything less. "There were a lot of things done so wrong, Richard. By both of us. Mistakes."_

_He dragged his gaze back up, a slight hint of confusion in his expression. When next he spoke, his words were soft and defeated, with a rare underlying sincerity._

"_I didn't know you needed more."_

_She forced away her immediate reaction, holding back a sigh and a biting retort. What had she expected by coming to see him off? They were accomplishing nothing but talking in circles, as they always did._

"_Yes, you did. I'd told you," she countered evenly. Richard stayed silent for a moment, realization at last flickering to life._

"_He's the one, isn't he? The mistake." _

"_Yes." The affirmation was quiet, no harsher than it had to be. No matter how strong a façade Richard kept up, she knew the confirmation would hurt. He had far too much pride. He'd never be capable of understanding a love as deep as what she still felt for Will. "I can't make the same mistake twice. Not with him."_

_Jack called for Richard then, sounding both impatient and disgusted. A cab waited by the curb, wipers working furiously to keep the windscreen clear of snow. _

"_Talk about it later?" Richard asked, and she detected a spark of his old bravado coming back. He assumed there would be a 'later' for them. She sighed in mild exasperation, her breath rising in a frosty cloud between them. He'd never get it._

"_We just did." She tried to keep her voice firm, but the words came out softly and with no real authority behind them. Still, Richard got the hint. He shrugged and turned away, making his way carefully down the slick steps toward the cab. She watched until both Richard and Jack were in the car and it disappeared into the flow of traffic, but neither man made eye contact again. _

_It was done. _They _were done. No longer would she be forced to wonder about infidelity. She wasn't stuck in a relationship that felt more like a business negotiation anymore. She could spend weekends as she chose, rather than being dragged out to dinner with associates and clients and acquaintances. _

_She felt relief, but also a bit of sorrow. The end of the relationship meant an end to the good points as well as the bad. No more wedding magazines. She'd be sleeping alone for the foreseeable future, no one to whisper with after lights out and no one to cuddle with in the morning when she needed those extra five minutes of warmth and comfort. The spur of the moment vacations and weekend trips were done. The constant companionship a relationship offered was over. _

_A sudden chill, a sharp shiver, coursed through her, and she realized at last just how cold it really was. She turned to go back inside, but found her entrance blocked. Will was standing a few inches from her, his hand gripping the edge of the door as he held it half open. _

_She gave him a little smile, but something was off. He didn't return it. He looked determinedly away, breaking eye contact and instead gazing hard in the direction Richard's cab had gone. She studied him carefully, curious but with a tiny prickle of anxiety growing. His eyes were blank and cold, guarding against some untold emotion. She'd seen that look before._

_With a painful jolt, she placed it. The expression behind his eyes was reminiscent of their last afternoon together. Emotionless vacancy, a hallmark of his effort to subdue the pain she'd inflicted. It was how he dealt with things. He shut down, locked everything away until he could handle it privately. What could she have possibly done this time?_

_She quickly replayed the conversation with Richard in her mind, but nothing seemed as if it would affect Will so deeply. Will's eyes flashed back to hers, a wild mix of emotion flaring behind his gaze. It only lasted a second, long enough to send a jolt of fear piercing through her chest. She had definitely done something, whether intentional or not._

_Will turned his back on her just as quickly and walked away across the foyer, not taking time to close the door. As she watched him ascend the stairs, it came to her. Will thought he was a mistake. The mistake she couldn't make twice. _

_She felt horrified at the realization. Will couldn't be further from the truth, but after everything she'd done to him, she couldn't really blame him for interpreting the conversation in that context. She took a quick step into the foyer and called his name, intending to catch him._

_Too late. She heard his door close quietly two floors up._

Slowly, she drew away from the vision. The sick feeling of anxiety remained, but nothing more. The frigid winter air had turned pleasantly warm. She could almost be comfortable if not for the memory of the dream and the dull stinging in her throat and behind her eyes that warned of tears.

This one had been worse than the apartment dream. The events hadn't been dulled by time and repetition. It was too raw. She had injured Will more deeply than before, in a harsher way.

And she hadn't set it right. It had come up when they were shouting at each other, but that was hardly the way to repair the damage and reassure Will that she hadn't meant it. She had intended to find the words and make him understand, but she must have fallen asleep before Will finished his phone call. And it was exactly like him not to wake her.

Will must have talked with Richard for ages. She wanted terribly to know the outcome of the call, and the dream had reminded her in a very unpleasant way that she still had to make him understand the mistake comment.

She opened her eyes but found the room dark, save for a dim blue glow coming from the nightlight plugged in on the far wall. A soft weight pressed against her, making movement an effort. She was most definitely not in the sitting room any longer, with its blank windows and suede sofa.

Elizabeth sat up and pushed away the blankets and heavy down comforter. There were a number of soft pillows stacked behind her. She found herself in a bed, a huge four-post affair with a carved wooden headboard. Will's room, she realized at last, although it was as far as possible from the way she'd last seen it. There were blinds hung over the windows, and two large pieces of furniture that weren't in the room before. A few of the boxes that were stacked against the wall had vanished.

She felt an odd sense of regret and shame. Will had obviously carried her upstairs and put her into bed, even after everything she'd put him through. He was probably taking the sofa. She seemed to have some kind of talent for making his life more difficult.

She had never meant to stay the night. She'd go straight down and find Will, ask about the phone call and make him understand about the mistake comment, then check into a hotel as she had originally intended. They'd both be better off if she left, and it was best to do it while they were on good terms.

The bed was rather high, and she was careful as she slid to the floor. She really had no idea where to begin searching for Will. Perhaps he had a guest room, and was sleeping there rather than on the couch. It would be more than intrusive to open every door on three floors looking for him. She'd try the living room, and if he wasn't there, she'd grudgingly wait until morning. She didn't want to walk out on him in the middle of the night, and nor did she much fancy searching the entire house for him.

She moved into the hallway and paused, listening for any sound that would indicate where she might find him. The staircase was entirely dark, and she gripped the rail tightly to be sure she wouldn't fall. The house itself was a little unnerving when it wasn't lit. The second floor landing gave way to nothing but shadows and dark doorways.

A sudden prickle of unfounded anxiety seized her. The house was more than unnerving. It was downright creepy, something out of an old horror film. She moved a bit more quickly toward the door she remembered led into the living room, guiding herself with one hand against the wall.

She found it open just a crack, a tiny sliver of light spilling into the hallway. She didn't knock, instead entering quietly and asking for him in hushed tones on the chance he was asleep. She'd barely spoken his name before he sat up and looked over the back of the couch.

"What's wrong?" he asked sleepily, but with a hint of concern behind his tone. She opened her mouth but didn't know where to begin, so settled instead for chewing her lip. Things were pleasant between them, and she wasn't sure she wanted to bring up what had passed earlier. "Couldn't sleep?" he guessed with a little smile, and this time she nodded.

"Something like that," she replied.

"Come on, then," Will told her, and motioned her over. He was lying down again by the time she crossed the room, holding his blanket back in a clear invitation for her to join him. She thought about refusing for half a second, the idea of how complicated it would make things running through her mind. Cuddling on the couch with Will would only make it harder for her to leave tomorrow. It wasn't healthy for either of them to pretend they were still close enough to sleep together that way.

Her resolve crumbled very quickly, however. Will didn't even seem to notice her hesitation. She forced away her unwelcome rationality and slid under the blanket to lie on top of him. He covered them and flicked off the television once she was settled, sending the room into darkness.

She breathed him in and nuzzled against his chest, the fabric of his worn out t-shirt soft against her cheek. She had forgotten how perfect it felt to lay with him like this, completely relaxed, the gentle rise and fall of his chest creating a soothing rhythm. She felt truly safe with him, as if nothing could touch her and nothing else mattered, as if the events of the past two days were inconsequential.

The tears she hadn't let fall after her dream made a sudden comeback, taking her by surprise. She had missed him more than she'd been willing to admit, even to herself. She sniffled and hiccupped for a moment before getting them under control again. Will hugged her tighter and combed his fingers through her hair.

"You weren't a mistake," she assured him softly.

"I heard it out of context," he agreed. "I shouldn't have behaved the way I did."

She'd leave it at that. It was a very neat resolution to what she had feared would be another heated discussion.

"What about the call with Richard?" she asked next, dreading the answer. He hadn't mentioned it, which could be an indication it had gone badly.

"I took care of it," he told her, and he sounded so reassuring that she didn't feel the need to press him further. She was content with silence. It made it easier to commit the moments to memory. Slowly, she felt sleep taking her again. Just before she gave in she felt Will rest his cheek against her hair. He inhaled deeply and sighed, a heartwrenching sound.

"Just for tonight," he muttered to himself, so quietly she couldn't be sure she'd heard him.

There were no dreams. When she woke it was to the sound of Riot barking, and the Temptations' declaration that they could turn a grey sky blue blaring from Will's Blackberry.

She felt cozy and content, and entirely disinclined to move. Her breathing matched Will's, the steady slowness dragging her back to sleep again. Then something warm and wet swiped across the bottom of her foot. She pushed herself up on one elbow, using Will's chest for support, and looked to the other end of the sofa. As expected, she found Riot with his nose under their blanket, attempting to cajole them out of bed with enthusiastic barks and foot licking.

When the dog noticed her watching he backed off and turned an excited circle, then ducked into a play bow and stared at her expectantly, tail wagging furiously. She prodded Will's shoulder, then collapsed against him with a deep yawn. It was far too early, and far too cold outside. She didn't envy Will's dog walking duties.

The Blackberry began ringing once more, and still Will didn't move. She gave him another hard poke, this time earning a pitiful groan. The faint noise from Will started Riot barking again, sharp rapid sounds that made her ears ache.

"Will, turn it off," she half shouted at him, leaning up again and this time shaking him. He finally cracked an eye open, wincing at the bright room.

"The phone or the dog?" he asked in response, making a blind grab for the Blackberry. His hand was bandaged, something she hadn't noticed the night before. "This is par for the course, I'm afraid."

She waited until he silenced the phone and retrieved a pull rope from under the table, which he flung into the hallway. Riot charged out, and soon the barking was replaced with growls and ripping noises. Will settled back into a comfortable position with his arm around her, and she slid into the space between his side and the back of the couch, so she was more beside him than on top of him. Both took a moment to breathe and appreciate the silence.

"Every morning?" she asked curiously, feeling slight pity for Will and his wakeup call.

"Not so bad once you get used to it." He half shrugged and began tracing patterns along her waist with his fingertips. The rhythmic motion was pleasant, and she closed her eyes again. She wondered how long they could stay in the little bubble of comfort, pretending their relationship wasn't fractured beyond repair. She clung to the moment as she had the ones before it.

"How's the hand?" She eventually broke the silence to look up at him. He smiled back, one corner of his mouth turning up as she caught his eye.

"Better. Jack came 'round yesterday afternoon and looked after it properly." He gave her a brief pat on the hip, a signal to get up. "Everything else hurts like hell, though."

She didn't move from the couch. It was too soon and too sudden for her liking. She leaned up and slightly over him instead, studying his face. His hair was mussed, and he was wonderfully scruffy, faint stubble shadowing his chin and jaw line. She rested her hand against his cheek to feel the rough texture, brushed her thumb lightly across the bruise shadowed just under his eye.

Longing and regret welled up unexpectedly in her chest. Too many memories of waking up next to him, early morning kisses, skipping lectures to lie in bed and watch television. She wanted it again. She wanted _this_.

She drew her hand away and shifted to the opposite end of the couch, observing Will as he sat up and began painfully stretching sore muscles. She should have listened to herself the night before and refused his offer. One night was all it had taken. She was addicted again, battling a desperate little impulse to be near him.

"Staying for breakfast?" he asked. She could have imagined it, but she thought she heard a hopeful note behind his tone. She agreed, perhaps a little too readily. Will didn't seem to notice. He told her he'd be ten minutes taking the dog out, snatched his Blackberry, and was gone.

She moved to the window and raised the blinds to look out on the park. It was deserted, as were the streets and sidewalks. Fat flakes of snow continued to fall, and probably had most of the night. The Square reminded her of a Currier and Ives print, covered by a perfect white blanket unspoiled by footprints or tire tracks.

She heard the door open and close downstairs. Riot tore into her line of sight, unleashed and bounding wildly through the snow. Will was close behind, wearing a black coat and trainers in addition to his pajamas, energetically scooping snowballs and flinging them for the dog to chase. The snow appeared deep, judging from the trenches Will made as he progressed across the street into the park. He paused for a brief moment and pressed his phone to his ear, but the call only lasted seconds and then he was right back to snowball flinging.

She watched the pair of them play for a bit, running and tagging and occasionally wrestling on the ground. Then she saw Richard coming down the front steps of his building. Panic began to rise in her chest. It would be a repeat of yesterday, and this time Jack wasn't around to stop it. She rapped her knuckles hard against the window in warning, but of course it was too great a distance for the sound to carry to Will.

As Richard drew closer to the center of the park, she noticed he was carrying something. Her suitcase, and her carry on bag. Dread turned into curiosity. He and Will greeted each other civilly with a handshake, spoke for a moment, then Will collected her things and began heading back to the house.

She ran from the room to meet him in the foyer. It seemed impossible that the two of them could be in each others company without launching into another brawl. What exactly had Will said or done to inspire such politeness?

"Got your stuff," he told her casually, as if he'd been out to pick up items on a shopping list. She waited on the stairs out of the line of fire, until he and Riot were done shaking snow everywhere, then went to investigate. She opened the carry on and quickly searched the contents, peeked into the suitcase, expecting Richard to have snuck in a note or some such nonsense, but everything was in order. It appeared that he had simply given her things back.

"Thanks," she replied. And then, because it had likely cost him some measure of pride to be nice to Richard, added, "You didn't have to."

"I thought things might go a bit easier if you were wearing your clothes instead of mine, when we went over."

She paused at that, pinning Will with a questioning expression. Did he mean they would be going over to Richard's flat? What reason could they possibly have for doing that? If she went back at all, it would be to get the rest of her stuff, and she certainly wouldn't allow Will to come. He and Richard had already proven incompatible, and nothing could make her take that risk again.

"Ah, right. I'm supposed to tell you that you're perfectly welcome to go over and clean out your things anytime. He said today would be convenient. I just assumed you'd want to get it done quickly…."

Will trailed off uncomfortably, sounding unsure of himself, as if he suddenly doubted she meant to move out at all. She felt sorry for dragging him into the middle of a domestic dispute, that he'd become the unwitting messenger. It couldn't be easy on him to be constantly reminded of her relationship with Richard.

"You're right," she replied. She was loathe to admit it, but the idea that Richard wanted all traces of her gone so promptly stung. Did he intend to replace her that quickly? She had thought that perhaps it would be better to leave it off for a few days, to give them both time to accept the situation so they could meet again on amiable terms. "It's best to take care of it now."

They had the tiramisu for breakfast and spent a leisurely half-hour flicking through the television channels. Will disappeared upstairs to shave and dress, but Elizabeth stayed on the sofa. She didn't know what she could possibly say to Richard, or what he intended to say to her. Nothing good could come of a meeting directly after a breakup.

When she finally did get dressed, she chose her outfit carefully. Too chic would lead Richard to believe she was trying to impress him, and too casual would give the impression she was pining for him. She settled on a sweater and a pair of skinny jeans, which she tucked into suede boots. Her hair she pulled back in a high ponytail, leaving it messy to tone down her appearance. She was just beginning to contemplate makeup when Will called impatiently from the foyer. She couldn't stall any longer.

They went in silence across the park to the opposite side of the Square. Will had called the movers back, and somehow the van had made it through the snow and was waiting.

She knew logically that it made sense to get the unpleasant task over with, but a large part of her wished to leave it off indefinitely. She wasn't taking Richard back, she was sure of that, not after the cheating and the fight with Will. She was stronger than that. Still, she desperately wanted a reprieve, just a few days to let the situation and the reality of it sink in, to accept it.

Will led the way into the building and up the stairs. Even though she had a key, she knocked when they reached the door. She didn't feel that the flat was hers to enter unannounced. It wasn't home.

Richard answered the door almost instantly, as if he'd been waiting for them. She hadn't been able to tell much about him from the window, but up close she could see that he had undoubtedly lost the fight. There were dark bruises across both his cheeks, and a splint around his nose. Will had definitely broken it, then.

She had expected the tension to be palpable between them all, but the atmosphere in the apartment was surprisingly calm. Richard stepped aside to let them enter, he and Will pointedly avoiding each others gazes. The flat was almost exactly as she'd left it the day before, except the roses were missing from the hall table.

"I've packed most of it already," Richard told her at last, reluctantly meeting her eyes. 'Turner and I can sort out the last couple boxes and do the furniture, if you'll tell me which pieces you want. I left the clothes for you to handle. If there's anything I missed you can take it."

She quickly ran through a mental list of the furniture they'd accumulated. Really all she wanted was the red couch, which she'd held on to after college, the leather armchair she liked to read in, and her 18th century antique dressing table. Not much of a start on furnishing a flat of her own.

She told Richard the list of pieces, but was indescribably reluctant to leave him and Will alone together. They hadn't even acknowledged each others presence. She feared it wouldn't take much to set them off again.

Richard led the way to the sitting room, which had become a mess of boxes and newspaper wrappings overnight. Wordlessly, he and Will settled on the floor and began sorting books from one box and placing them in another. She'd just have to be quick about packing upstairs, while they were content to play nicely.

"Be good," she warned them, and against her better judgment left the room and went up the stairs. She found the bedroom easily enough. It looked very similar to their old room in L.A. Same furniture, same arrangement. The closet doors were open, all their clothes arranged neatly on hangers, hers on one side and his on the other. Richard had left the entire set of Louis Vuitton luggage out for her, chocolate logo cases with red cherries.

She chewed her lip for a moment, pausing on the threshold and feeling incredibly guilty for thinking Richard had ulterior motives. He was being very good about the whole thing. Perhaps he simply wanted a clean break.

Elizabeth began to pack very efficiently. A month ago her entire wardrobe wouldn't have fit in only one set of luggage, but she had downsized considerably in preparation for the move to London. Her shoes and bags were still packed in the big boxes she'd originally put them in, stacked beside the doorway. As she finished each suitcase, she moved it to stand along the wall with the boxes.

It was when she began filling the last suitcase with her collection of jeans and skirts that she heard footsteps on the stairs. She paused and looked to the doorway, but already knew she'd find Richard waiting. He was standing awkwardly just inside the room, as if unsure whether or not he was welcome. Rolled up in his hand was one of the wedding magazines she'd packed so long ago.

"Can we talk for a minute?"

He'd barely gotten the words out before she heard someone else ascending the stairs. Will appeared behind Richard a moment later, looking severely annoyed and even slightly apprehensive. She shook her head at them both in exasperation. They were ridiculous.

She crossed the room and maneuvered herself until she was between them, Richard inside the bedroom and Will in the hallway. She pushed the packed suitcases outside.

"Take those down for me?" she asked Will, and she saw shock flash briefly behind his eyes. If she had any hope of resolving things with Richard for good, it would have to be privately. Will's presence would only complicate things.

He shrugged, feigning indifference, and picked up one of the suitcases. She knew it was a blow to him, being turned out, but she felt he understood. She closed the door softly and waited, but didn't hear any footsteps. Richard scoffed and rolled his eyes at the silence.

"I can't make him leave," she replied, and went back to her packing. She waited, but while Richard had seemed so eager to talk moments before, he didn't speak. She was zipping the suitcase before he found his words.

"He told me everything over the phone yesterday," Richard muttered quietly, coming to sit on the bed beside her suitcase. "I know you weren't sleeping with him."

It appeared that Will really had fixed the situation. But how much had he told Richard? Surely not _everything_ about their relationship and their past?

"You aren't filing a lawsuit, then?" she asked, and couldn't quite keep a tiny hint of sarcasm from her voice. Richard shrugged and averted his eyes.

"I might have deserved it." The faint hint of humility behind his tone suggested that he knew very well he deserved it.

"Where was this rationality yesterday?" she replied, turning her back on him and going into the closet to retrieve her more expensive dresses, the ones kept in hanging bags. When she faced the bed again, Richard was watching her with a raised eyebrow.

"And you were rational? Shouting and throwing your ring at me like some sort of spoiled child?"

"How could I have been rational?" She shot back. She realized a moment too late that she'd raised her voice. She paused for a moment to check her tone before continuing, lest Will hear. "We were engaged. We were supposed to come here and start a life together. I get to London and find out that you've been screwing our designer behind my back, after you'd assured me at least twice before that there was no one else and never would be. What was I supposed to think? To do?"

"I'd ask you the same question."

She dumped the dresses on the bed and studied him with an incredulous glare. What was he implying? He was the one who'd been caught cheating.

"You're unbelievable!" she hissed.

"Please, Elizabeth," he simpered sarcastically. "You ran straight to him. What was _I _supposed to think? You can't honestly blame me for coming over there."

"I didn't do anything wrong," she shot back, immediately defensive. She was prepared to play the 'you cheated' card, not concerned with whether or not it was unreasonable. She'd had enough of Richard and his double standards.

"And I'm supposed to know that?" he countered. "You haven't been any more open with me than I've been with you over the past two months. It's like you gave up." He stood from the bed and moved closer, lowering his voice to a more balanced tone. "You stopped talking to me, you weren't happy, nothing I tried worked. It began to feel like you were with me just for the sake of being in a relationship."

There was truth behind his words. For every effort she made to repair their crumbling relationship, there was an instance where she had chosen not to be bothered. She began to turn down dinner invitations and parties. It was too much work to keep up with Richard and his schedule. It all seemed so superficial.

"Why did you accept the ring in the first place, Elizabeth?"

He took her hand and guided her to sit on the bed. This was the conversation he'd come to have with her, not the silly shouting and accusations they were throwing at each other moments ago.

She chewed her lip, weighing her response. She was so tired of it all. Hurting people she supposedly loved, playing games whether intentional or not, making decisions that turned out the worst for everyone involved. Honesty was the only possible way out.

"I thought there was love," she replied quietly, not meeting his eyes. She wanted him to shout at her again. It would make it far easier to say what was required. But this, she knew, was the Richard from the beginning. The man who had been swept up in the euphoria of new romance alongside her, all those months ago. He didn't shout.

"Isn't there?" he asked softly.

"There is," she assured him, "just not here."

The words were painful to force out, but she owed him the truth. She'd been leading him on in a way, over the entire course of their relationship. She'd never truly gotten over Will. Richard squeezed her hand in response and shook his head.

"I thought I'd given you what you wanted."

"That's the odd thing," she told him with a sad smile. "So did I. But I didn't know what I wanted, not really, and I wasn't in a position to figure it out. I got so used to you not listening that I stopped listening to myself."

"I'm sorry," he replied quietly. She saw only sincerity behind his eyes. She appreciated the sentiment, but….

"Sorry doesn't mean anything. Not anymore."

She thought that perhaps she understood what Will had meant, how he'd felt yesterday. She leaned in and gave Richard a gentle kiss on the cheek, then stood and gathered her suitcase and dresses. Her hand was turning the doorknob when he called her back.

"Isn't there anything left to fix?"

She shook her head.

"We've already tried. We both deserve better, Richard. I deserve the best, and that's something you can't buy. I had it once before, when I was with someone who truly cared, and I didn't recognize it for what it was."

"I do care, Liz. I just always thought it was enough. I didn't know you wanted something else. You didn't even know yourself. How can you blame me?"

He seemed genuinely puzzled. He knew as well as she did that their relationship hadn't been horrible. He'd always given her adequate attention, taken her out, bought her gifts. She felt a bit guilty for not being clearer in expressing her reasons for leaving. It all came back to Will, what they'd had and what she hadn't ever really given up, and what she still longed for even if she was reluctant to admit it. They were feelings she didn't know how to put into words. When she was with Will, it had all been effortless and easy. It just worked, somehow.

She turned the doorknob, deciding to give him the simplest reply she could think of.

"Because Will never had to ask."

She stepped into the hallway to find Will sitting a few feet away on the top step of the staircase. She was grateful that he hadn't been eavesdropping. The suitcases she'd left with him had even disappeared, although that could be because he'd made the movers take them down. When he heard her nearby, he looked up with a questioning expression behind his eyes.

She didn't want to relive the conversation she'd just had with Richard. She might not have loved him as deeply as she did Will, but that didn't mean leaving was any easier. It still hurt. She didn't enjoy games, despite Will's conviction to the contrary.

As he stood and took the suitcase from her, she whispered a quiet thank-you. She started down the stairs, and Will followed. She felt regret that her time with Richard had ended on such a bad note, but was grateful they'd at least talked it out properly. They'd both come to accept it much faster on these terms.

"Lizzie!" They were at the door before Richard called her back. She turned to find him standing at the top of the stairs. "Don't forget to leave the key."

She passed the dresses over to Will and retrieved her keys from her pocket, removing the newest one. She weighed it in her hand for a moment, studied the shiny smooth brass. She dropped it onto the table in the hallway and walked out.

Once outside, Will tossed the remaining suitcase and hanging bags into the back of the moving truck.

"I found your hotel," he began conversationally. Her eyes snapped to him in surprise. She'd entirely forgotten about finding a place to stay. She hadn't considered what came next, after retrieving her things from Richard's flat. She felt grateful that Will, at least, was on top of things, but didn't think she was quite ready to say goodbye to him yet. It was too sudden.

"You've got an indefinite reservation," he continued. He waved the movers off, watching for a moment until the van pulled away, then he crossed the street into the park. She followed him, not at all eager to hear where he was sending her off to. She'd much prefer to stay in his company a bit longer. "I explained to the owner how you're looking for a flat, and he said you can stay as long as it takes, free of charge. You can even store your junk there."

She wondered how many favors he'd called in. He was trying to be kind, but surely he realized it was all too much to deal with in one morning.

"I hope you don't mind," he added as they reached the opposite side of the park, "but there's no lift. You'll have to take the stairs. There _might_ be room service, if you ask nicely. Oh, and there's a rather obnoxious six a.m. wakeup call."

"What sort of hotel is this?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow, suddenly suspicious. It didn't sound like the kind of place Will would choose deliberately. She sensed one of his old games, a mischievous spark she had forgotten existed. Will stopped walking, pausing in the middle of the deserted street and catching her arm to make her stop as well. He smirked, and pointed at the house on Berkeley Square.

…_to be continued…_


	5. Epilogue: Departure

Author's Note: Once again, thank you to everyone who read or reviewed or sent me a PM. The show of interest certainly kept me motivated! Another super special shoutout to everyone who helped with this chapter! You know who you are and you know what you did!

I'm done. Go read now. :)

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_A Year On An Airplane  
Epilogue: Departure_

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"Will?"

A hollow bang echoed back in answer, reverberating through the sparsely furnished rooms of her new flat. The door opened immediately into the living room. She found the space littered with brushes and empty paint cans, and the remains of the horrid flowered wallpaper Will had stripped the day before. Flecks of rust and paint chips dusted the once-shining wood floor, the brightest redeeming quality of the entire apartment. The discarded sandpaper strips were an accident waiting to happen.

The little table meant to sit near the door hadn't yet made the trip from Berkeley Square, so she was forced to juggle two cups of coffee and the bag of doughnuts she'd fetched from Starbucks as she went in search of him. The flat was such a mess that she didn't bother to remove her boots, instead leaving the slush that clung to her heels and the hem of her jeans in little melting puddles behind her.

She was careful as she crossed the room, avoiding the sandpaper that would be so detrimental to the finish on the floor if stepped on. The kitchen opened into the living room on one side, separated only by a bar. She studiously averted her eyes after catching sight of a ladder in her peripheral vision. Her kitchen, which had been gleaming with new chrome appliances the day before, likely resembled a war zone after Will's late night without her supervision. She was better off not knowing.

A hallway led out of the living room, taking her deeper into the flat. The bathroom on the right, dismantled shower doors blocking the entrance. The spare room on the left, its purpose undeclared. The hallway ended at her new bedroom, which she'd last seen in a sad state of disorder. The thudding bangs issuing from within didn't sound promising.

Overall the flat seemed absolutely hopeless, a bigger wreck than when they'd started despite the relentless work Will, and to a lesser degree herself, had poured into it over the past three days. He was adamant that she be moved in tomorrow, had promised each day that it would be ready. He had picked the time frame himself, for reasons she could guess but didn't like to dwell on.

He was tired of her being underfoot, he didn't want to risk getting close again, he'd only offered to let her stay out of pity rather than genuine friendship, he was using her presence at his house as a subtle way of telling Richard to suck it.

Anything was more plausible than her naïve hope that he actually enjoyed her company. True, he was kind and attentive and comforting, but something had failed to fall into place between them. He was resolutely holding her at bay, not quite allowing her fully into his life, keeping her poised just on the threshold.

Today would be her last chance to change things between them. She had to make it count. Will would undoubtedly take his opportunity to walk out of her life if she didn't remind him of everything they'd meant to each other once, and what he still meant to her.

She wouldn't presume to know how he felt in return. There had been too many mixed signals over the course of the week for her to correctly interpret anything. She noticed, after the first day of touring flats with him, that he only suggested locations within walking distance of Berkeley Square. He managed to find a fault with every flat that took her out of Mayfair. Most of the imperfections he cited were either fictional or ridiculous.

Then there was the work he'd put into the apartment itself; painting, repairing, installing recessed lighting in the kitchen and crown molding throughout the flat. He allowed her to help with most projects, but usually assigned her menial tasks. Any day when she was granted permission to do more than paint or retrieve tools was an exciting one.

The work, the preference for flats that kept her in Mayfair, to her those things indicated feelings more significant than pity or tolerance. She could feel the fragile thrumming timbres of an old familiarity between them, not as a constant, but in fleeting moments. The resonance of intimacy eluded her each time, without fail, before she could grasp it and hold firm.

She paused in the bedroom doorway, shocked from her analysis by the pristine turquoise-walled space that had seemed so hopeless the day before. No paint cans, no blue tape protecting the molding around the ceiling and floor, no large strips of paint-splattered canvas and newspaper spread underfoot. Her eyes fell to rest on the bed.

The slightly dented, hopelessly rusted antique iron bed she'd found in Portobello Road the day before and fallen in love with. Only it had somehow been transformed into the shining cream coloured centerpiece of the room. The curvy bits ran in smooth arches, rather than occasional right angles. The missing bed knob, and the remaining three, had been replaced with gleaming crystal spheres that threw tiny rainbows to dance on the walls.

Then she noticed Will. He was responsible for the noise, his current task hammering a paint scraper into the little space where the window met the windowsill. He didn't acknowledge her, entire absorbed with his work and whatever song his iPod was blaring.

This was good. She could take a moment to gather her thoughts, work out what she meant to say. If she could talk to him now, really talk to him, tell him…what, exactly? Putting feelings into words, coherent sentences, seemed such a daunting task. Especially before coffee.

She crossed the room and nudged him with the toe of her boot, leaving a wet spot on the leg of his jeans. Will visibly jumped at the unexpected intrusion. His head snapped up and the hammer cracked sharply against the wall at his inattention.

"Shit, Elizabeth!"

"Shit," she agreed, pressing her lips tightly together to hide her smile, and nodded at the hole he'd just knocked in the bedroom wall. He blew out a defeated sigh and tugged the headphones from his ears. "What were you doing, anyway?"

She passed him one of the Starbucks cups and sat beside him on the floor, back resting comfortably against the wall. The paper crinkled as she unrolled the top of the bag of doughnuts, but that wasn't where her attention was focused. She watched from the corner of her eye as Will set his tools on the windowsill and moved to sit.

She willed him to sit beside her, just that tiny indication that any advances she made wouldn't be wholly unwelcome. He chose to sit on the opposite side of the window instead, leaving two feet of blank open space for her to traverse. She plunked down the bag between them in a vain effort to make the expansive gulf less damning.

"We painted the windows shut," Will informed her, sounding more amused than perturbed as he plunged his hand into the doughnut bag. She found it unlikely that he had been careless enough to contribute to the mistake. She had been the one to paint around the particular window Will was working on. He was only being nice, taking half the blame.

"And we made a nice gaping hole in my bedroom wall," she added, choosing to be flip rather than deliver another of her apologies Will found to be so inadequate. She had taken his earlier words to heart, resolved never to bother him with the sentiment again.

"I can fix it," Will assured her, entirely too smug in her opinion. She made a show of examining the hole, running her finger along the broken edge of drywall. She took a thoughtful sip of coffee and lifted an eyebrow in skepticism.

"Like you fixed the window?"

Will flung the last bite of his doughnut in her direction, a deft retaliation to her teasing, and pushed himself away from the wall to stand. He reached down with one hand to help her up as well.

"Be nice, or I won't give you the tour."

A tour sounded promising. It suggested the apartment wasn't as hopeless as it had initially appeared. Elizabeth allowed him to tug her to her feet, and felt a pleasant surge of surprise when Will's grip around her fingers remained firm. He hadn't been particularly enthusiastic about physical contact earlier in the week.

He led her back into the hallway, stopping first at the spare room. It had been very much like the living room, last time she'd seen it. A layer of dirt and debris coating the floor, paint cans and discarded tools piled haphazardly in corners, the most atrocious wallpaper imaginable.

"Ready?" Will asked. The undercurrent of enthusiasm behind his tone was infectious. Elizabeth felt a fraction of her constant anxiety about the apartment vanish.

He reached into the room and flicked the light, radiating pride as he awaited her reaction. The room looked almost identical to her bedroom, although slightly smaller and minus a window. The walls were painted and the floor was clean. All that remained was to decide what sort of room to make it.

She gave Will's hand a squeeze, intending to say something, but that small act of gratitude was enough for him. He was off down the hallway again, this time leaving her to follow in his wake. She joined him as he was heaving the pair of shower doors out of the bathroom entrance.

She had complete faith in Will, but there were limits to what even he could accomplish. She loathed that bathroom. There was no counter space, no storage, and the previous owner's idea of a shower was a claw-foot tub with a plastic curtain hung from the ceiling.

Again Will flicked the light, and another much larger portion of her ever-present anxiety and worry disappeared. The floors had been tiled in a pretty yellow-tan color. The walls were a soft neutral brown with gold flecks of paint splattered on. Somehow Will had found space enough for shelving, and had built a cabinet around the base of the sink and added a little tile countertop. She now had a shower/bathtub combo that just happened to fit perfectly the width of the room.

Will pushed her inside and squeezed in behind her. The room hadn't been designed for two people, and it was a tight fit. He didn't seem to notice how closely he pressed against her as he moved toward the shower. She certainly noticed, and took it as a positive indicator that her subtle efforts to win him back were paying off.

His next big reveal consisted of sliding the frosted, mostly opaque shower door back. It retracted smoothly into the wall, completely out of the way, and she couldn't figure out how the hell he had done it. The walls of the shower were tiled in a brown and gold mosaic pattern.

"Well?" Will asked impatiently. It seemed he had grown tired of her non-reaction.

"It's perfect," she told him at last, but even that felt inadequate. It seemed to satisfy Will, however.

"Now the kitchen," he demanded. They moved in to the hallway once more, and on an impulse, Elizabeth took his hand again. Will faltered, his progress slowing significantly. She watched confusion and surprise replace his enthusiasm.

She immediately felt that she had made a terrible misstep. She hadn't taken care to make the hand grab friendly enough. It was soft and intimate and everything that she should have realized would get Will's defenses up. She felt sure that she had pushed him too far too quickly, despite the indicators she had sensed before that perhaps he was ready for more.

Will flinched under her touch. She waited for him to pull his hand away, and the sting of that silent reproach. Had she been seeing things that weren't there? Did she want him back so badly that she had overanalyzed even the slightest aspects of their time together, twisting them into favorable encouragement for her advances?

Will relaxed, tentatively accepting her with a slack grasp of his own. Even so, she resolved to hold any more rash impulses at bay. Subtlety was the way to win him over. She would make sure they had an enjoyable day, she'd be nothing but pleasant and engaging and helpful, she'd offer to cook dinner later tonight if the opportunity presented itself. Anything she could think of to make him see that he'd be better off staying in her life than leaving.

He remained visibly uncomfortable until they reached the kitchen. Once there he left her standing against the wall and moved the ladder into the living room, then came back and pulled away the large sheets of plastic that covered the appliances.

The chrome shone brightly under the new lights Will had installed, and he showed her how to slide the dial up to brighten them or down to make the room dim. By that point his uneasy behavior had vanished. They fell into what had become a routine.

She sat and made a list on a yellow legal pad of everything they needed to buy. While it had been mostly paint and tools and other construction paraphernalia on the previous days, today her list was comprised of household things, small appliances and kitchen tools and accessories.

Will made a separate list, a checklist of work they needed to complete. His list was comparatively short and consisted of nothing more than cleaning up the living room and fixing the hole in the bedroom wall. They were reaching the end of the project, and Elizabeth was running out of ploys to convince Will to stick around.

Most of the day was devoted to shopping, the afternoon to cleaning. Miraculously, when they turned out the lights and locked up the apartment, it was ready for moving day. All that remained was to haul her stuff from Berkeley Square to Grosvenor Square.

They picked up Chinese takeaway for dinner and caught the end of a James Bond film on television. Despite the pleasant tone of the evening, Elizabeth still felt uneasy. Nothing special had occurred, she hadn't managed to impress upon Will how greatly she would enjoy his continued companionship. Her courage came in waves, granting her the bravery to make little gestures like grabbing his hand, but when it came to actually stating the way she felt with words, her resolve shattered. She felt in her heart that he wouldn't return the sentiments as fervently as she delivered them.

Later, showered and clad in pajamas and slippers, she sought out her elusive bravery and harnessed it for a final attempt at Will. The route from his bedroom to the living room was a familiar one now, no longer unnerving or daunting as it had been that first night.

She found the door to Will's temporary sleeping quarters closed, which was a bit odd but not really a disheartening development. He had always left the door open a crack on previous nights, she noticed when she came down for a midnight snack or something to drink in the early hours of the morning, but perhaps he had simply grown tired of being accosted by Riot before daybreak. Certainly the closed door and all it implied wasn't aimed at her.

She knocked softly and curled her fingers around the cool metal of the doorknob. Will didn't respond, but she could hear the television still going from inside. Her announcement had been lost amid the noise.

Elizabeth turned the knob and pushed. The door creaked a little, but didn't open. The knob rotated a fraction of an inch then refused to move anymore, although her fingers continued to slide to the left.

It was locked. Will had locked her out.

She slowly released the doorknob and moved quietly back down the hallway to the stairs. Her pride burned with the affront, her courage diminished. She waited for rage or resentment to seize her, or even a slight annoyance, but none of those emotions showed themselves, the ones that were so easy to hide behind. She felt only a hollow ache inside, an unpleasantness only Will could inspire because he was the only one she'd ever truly cared for. She retreated back upstairs.

The bedroom was silent, the sounds of the city muffled by the snow outside and the heavy curtains that covered the windows, but Elizabeth couldn't sleep. She had forced the reality of the situation to the back of her mind, concentrating only on the time she and Will spent together, and how to hold on to him. She had refused to consider that perhaps he didn't want to be held on to.

She couldn't make him forget the way she'd walked out on him, and she couldn't make him trust her again. Those things had to be his decision. No amount of influence could sway him if he wasn't ready.

Elizabeth blew out a breath and rolled over to stare at the ceiling. It wasn't enough for her to pursue him. Their relationship, if it ever came to that again, had to be initiated by Will. He had to want it just as much as she did before it would work. She recalled the moments when they were shouting at each other, after Richard left. Will had been right. It wasn't enough to ask someone to stay, beg them, and have them concede. She needed to know it was what he truly wanted. He had to make the choice for himself, not for her.

She knew she had to stop trying to persuade him to stay, but she didn't know how to say goodbye or let him go, which left her sleepless in Will's bed while the dreaded final valediction drew steadily closer.

The next morning passed in a blurred rush of movement and noise. Elizabeth gave orders to Will and the movers he'd hired, directing them where to place the larger pieces of furniture she had amassed over the course of the week. Despite her new resolve to turn the final decision about their relationship over to Will, she couldn't stop herself from finding ways to make him linger after the majority of the work was finished.

She asked him to rearrange the living room again, she claimed the new refrigerator made a funny noise, she took him grocery shopping and made him carry bags inside, she feigned ignorance and asked him to hook up her DVD player. Will was perfectly friendly through it all, showed no signs of the soul crushing resentment he'd demonstrated through the locked door the night before.

Eventually, she ran out of imaginary chores to keep him busy with. The apartment was undeniably pristine. The overcast day had begun to grow dimmer, tiny pellets of sleet pecking on the glass of the windows.

"I should go."

Will spoke as if reading her thoughts, the only probable difference being that he _wanted_ to leave while she knew he needed to leave before the weather turned horrible.

He laid the television controls on the table and stood from the couch, seemingly satisfied with his assessment of the DVD and satellite setup. Elizabeth rose as well while he retrieved his coat, feeling a little guilty and definitely disgusted with herself.

Even though she hadn't made any more blatantly obvious advances, she had still been selfish in keeping him at the apartment all afternoon. It frightened her beyond reason to relinquish control, to trust Will to make the decision for both of them. She wanted so badly for things to fall back into a comfortable rhythm.

Now that she'd had a taste, a reminder, of how fulfilling their partnership had been, she was terrified of losing it. She was strong enough to be alone, certainly, but the prospect of loneliness compared with Will was decidedly lackluster. He was her best friend, whether he was aware of it or not. She loved him, and she didn't use that term lightly anymore. She felt that everything would collapse once he was gone.

Still, she owed him that trust.

He had put that same kind of faith in her when he proposed, given her the opportunity to decide the future for both of them. She had wasted the chance. Her turn was over. Will would make the right decision, do what he felt was best for both himself and her.

"Thanks for the help," she offered as she walked him toward the door, her tone too bright in the oppressive silence that lingered. She crossed her arms across her chest so she wouldn't be tempted to touch him. "See you later?" It came out with a questioning lilt, rather than the firm assertion she had planned in her head.

Will met her gaze evenly, but she didn't find the carefree acquiescence she had hoped for. His expression was deep and soft, not at all comforting, even though she suspected he was trying to be. She looked away, his pity scorching her pride. This was going to play out in some sort of macabre reenactment of that last day in his flat.

"I don't know, Liz."

She suspected he was only trying to soften the rejection with ambiguity. There was a soft finality behind his tone that suggested he knew very well what he wanted. She dragged her eyes back up and tried to smile for him.

"You've got everything you need here, right?" Will asked when she remained quiet. He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets, shifted his weight to the other foot. She interpreted his restless movement as an eagerness to be gone. She opened the door for him.

"I can manage the rest," she assured him, although the words stung. Letting him go was a nice concept, but a difficult one to follow through with. "I've kept you too long already."

Will angled his body toward the open door, as if he would leave, but hesitated before moving into the hallway. She felt a tentative hope begin to build at his inaction. Even if nothing definite happened today, perhaps there remained something that would draw him back to her.

"Bye, Liz." He gave her a half-smile, but it was sad and didn't reach his eyes. He stepped out of the apartment and into the hall, started toward the stairs.

"Bye," she returned, but it came out little more than a whisper and he hadn't heard. She shut the door and shivered. The chill from the hallway had invaded the apartment, and she moved into the kitchen to turn up the digital thermostat.

The door opened again. She heard the hinges squeak in protest, then a soft thud as something landed on the table by the entrance. She turned, but the living room was empty and the door had been pulled closed.

There, on the little table by the door, was her spare key. Will's key, even though it had only been in his possession so he could come by and work on the flat. It shouldn't have held any further meaning, but Elizabeth finally admitted to herself that it did. She had hoped, when she gave it to him, that he would understand the deeper significance behind the action. She was inviting him in, giving him full access to her life, welcoming him back.

If he had understood, he had very decisively turned her down. Her tiny reserve of optimism shattered. She was still shaking, but not with cold. She felt numb and hollow as she waited for the reality of her situation to sink in. There wasn't a single person in London who cared for her, certainly not Richard, and not even Will. Somehow, without her quite knowing when, everything had fallen apart.

She went back and locked the door for the night, punched in the code on the little illuminated keypad mounted nearby that would enable the alarm, then retreated to her bedroom. The set of luggage was stacked at the foot of her bed, but she didn't have the motivation to unpack and organize. She'd been living out of suitcases all week at Will's, so one more night wouldn't hurt.

The wind picked up outside, rattling the glass of her window and driving another shower of sleet against it. The blinds were pulled up and the curtains pushed back, and she couldn't remember leaving it that way. She went to remedy the problem.

There, on the windowsill, was a tiny model airplane. Elizabeth stared for a moment, surprised by its presence. She certainly hadn't put it there, and that only left Will. She picked it up and examined it. It fit nicely in the palm of her hand, the metal cold against her skin. It was significant.

They had reconnected on the airplane, been surprised by affection judged long dead. They had been offered a second chance at their relationship, even if Will had chosen to walk out of her apartment rather than accept it. Most importantly, Will had told her that he loved her on the plane. Those feelings couldn't have disappeared completely over the past week, and the little toy in her bedroom was his way of reminding her. She felt that perhaps Will would give her another chance, in the end.

_Fin._


End file.
